The Faded Bouquet
The letter was already on the desk, a pale rectangle of cream paper that seemed to glow against the dark mahogany surface, waiting for him with the patience of a stone. Elias Thorne stood in the center of his office, a room that smelled of old paper and the metallic tang of rain against the windowpane, and he did not move. The elevator had just descended with a soft, hydraulic sigh, depositing...
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