The Wistful Saga
The porcelain cup in Elias Thorne’s hand was no longer white, for it had been scrubbed, boiled, and subjected to the relentless, acidic erosion of a thousand strong coffees and the even stronger, more corrosive brews of his own resentment, until its glaze had developed a matte, opaque finish that absorbed the light rather than reflecting it, a perfect physical manifestation of the years he had...
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