The Wistful Saga
You sit in the study, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of the ink that stains your fingertips. The desk is mahogany, heavy and dark, a piece you commissioned years ago when you first believed that permanence was something one could buy. It stands in the corner, immovable, a monolith of wood that has outlasted the men who once owned it and the institutions...
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