The Wistful Grid
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the envelope crisp and white against the grey drab of the office floor. Arthur Vane sat at his desk, a low-level actuary for the National Insurance Board, and watched the dust motes dance in the shaft of light that pierced the closed blinds. He did not open it immediately. He adjusted his spectacles, feeling the familiar tightness across the bridge of his nose,...
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