The Wistful Witness
The discharge papers lay on the mahogany desk, a single sheet of heavy cream stock that smelled faintly of lemon oil and old dust. Inspector Elias Thorne adjusted his cuffs, the fabric of his uniform hanging loose around his wrists, a garment that had fit perfectly two years ago before the insomnia had begun to hollow out his frame. He picked up the fountain pen, its nib heavy with ink, and...
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