The Wistful Show
The letter lay on the mahogany desk, its seal unbroken, the wax a deep, arterial red that seemed to pulse in the dim light of the office. Elias Thorne did not reach for it. He sat in his leather chair, the leather creaking softly under the weight of his stillness, and watched the dust motes dance in the single beam of sunlight that cut through the heavy velvet curtains. Across the room, Julian...
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