The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-22 17:04:24 -

The grey fog did not drift; it pressed against the windowpanes of the cottage like a living thing, thick and cold, smelling of wet wool and old iron. I sat at the table, my quill trembling in a hand that had not stopped shaking since dawn, watching the condensation gather on the glass and run in slow, deliberate trails down the surface. My friend Elias was dead, or so the village claimed, for...

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