The Wistful Witness
Thorne. The name hung in the damp air of the basement archive, stripped of any warmth, just a label on a file folder. I looked up from the box of ledgers, my hands stained with the grey dust of old paper. Director Halloway stood at the top of the short flight of stairs, his silhouette framed by the harsh, buzzing fluorescent light of the corridor above. He did not come down. He simply watched...
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