The Wistful Saga
You are late. The clock on the wall ticks with a mechanical indifference that feels like an insult, each second a small coin dropped into a jar that will never be full. Major Halloway stands by the window, his back to you, watching the fog roll off the moor and settle into the eaves of the old estate. He does not turn around. He simply speaks, his voice flat and stripped of any warmth, as if...
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