The Wistful Witness
Halloway, come in. The voice of Director Vane cut through the damp chill of the antechamber, sharp as a scalpel against the silence. I entered the office, my left hand trembling violently, the fingers locked in a spasm that made the brass doorknob feel like a live coal. I am forty-two, a senior archivist with twenty years of service, and I stood there, a man of rigid intellect suddenly reduced...
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