The Distant Summer
The morning light did not break through the heavy velvet curtains so much as it negotiated a truce with the dust motes, hovering in the stagnant air of the study where Elias Thorne sat, his fingers trembling not from age but from a peculiar, electric anticipation that had nothing to do with the weather outside and everything to do with the letter lying unopened on his mahogany desk. It was a...
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