The Wistful Witness
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of Millhaven into slick, black mirrors that reflected the gaslight in fractured shards. Elias Thorne sat in the armchair by the window, his back to the door, his hands resting on the leather-bound ledger in his lap. The book was warm, humming with a low, rhythmic vibration that he felt in his teeth rather than heard with his...
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