The Wistful Witness
The name was called out not as a greeting but as a correction, a sharp syllable that cut through the low hum of the generator and the distant, rhythmic dripping of condensation from the steel ribs of the shelter. I looked up from the logbook, where the ink was still wet on the entry for the third day of the month, and saw the silhouette of the Superior Officer standing in the doorway, framed by...
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