The Wistful Show
The ink on the ledger was still wet when Elias Vane realized he had been erased. It was a quiet sort of vanishing, not a dramatic tear in the fabric of the world, but a slow fading of the edges, like a photograph left too long in the sun. He stood in the center of the Grand Hall of the Pneumatic Exchange, a cathedral of brass and steam where the air tasted of ozone and old money. The hall was...
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