The Wistful Silence
The rain on the roof of the administrative block sounded like static, a constant, low-frequency hum that Elias Thorne had grown accustomed to over his twelve years as a mid-level warden at Blackgate Penitentiary. He stood by the window, watching the wipers of a parked sedan beat a rhythmic pattern against the glass, his reflection ghosting over the wet asphalt below. He was forty-two, a man who...
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