The Wistful Witness
The ink in my logbook was still wet when I noticed the weight on the desk. It was a cold, heavy thing, resting precisely where Clara had been sitting just moments before the car accident took her, a left hand that had not moved since she left for the hospital, though her body was already gone. I am Elias Thorne, an archivist of thirty years, and I am writing this to record the facts as they...
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