The Distant Joke
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, its envelope the color of dried blood, bearing no postmark but a seal that seemed to pulse with a faint, arterial heat. Elias Thorne, a man whose years had carved deep, silent valleys into his face, held the paper in hands that trembled not with age, but with the sudden, terrifying recognition of a fate he had spent a lifetime fleeing. He was an archivist of the...
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