The Wistful Grid
The ink had not yet dried on the final line of the ledger when Elias Thorne felt the first true tremor of defeat, a vibration that started in the hollows of his knees and traveled up through the spine to lodge itself behind the eyes. He sat in the cramped office of the Meridian Textile Company, a room that smelled of stale tobacco and the sharp, chemical bite of industrial dye, and he stared at...
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