The Wistful Witness
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, industrial drizzle that turned the gravel of the Blackwood Line boundary into a slurry of red clay and black silt, and you stood at the end of the tape measure, your boots sinking into the mud with a wet, sucking sound that echoed in the hollow of your chest. You are Elias Thorne, forty years old, a senior inspector for the Northern Rail,...
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