The Distant Ghost
The iron bars of the gallery were not merely obstacles; they were the very ribs of the institution, a skeletal cage that held the breath of the city in a perpetual, stifled exhale. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the rotunda, his hand pressed against the cold, vibrating metal, feeling the pulse of the power that hummed beneath the marble floors. He was a man of modest station, a clerk in...
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