The Wistful Grid
The ink was still wet on the final line of the correspondence when the bell rang, a harsh, mechanical shriek that tore through the quiet of the study and shattered the illusion of order that Elias Thorne had spent the last decade trying to construct. He did not move to answer it. Instead, he remained seated at the heavy oak desk, his hand hovering over the paper, the pen trembling slightly in...
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