The Wistful Skyline
The rain against the window of the private study was not a sound, but a texture, a continuous, wet friction that seemed to abrade the silence of the room. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed leather chair, his spine curved into a question mark, and stared at the object resting on the mahogany desk. It was a pair of spectacles. They were not old, not in the way of antiques, but they were worn....
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