The Wistful Grid
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, gray mist that clung to the windows of the van and turned the world outside into a watercolor of indistinct shapes. Elias Thorne sat in the passenger seat, his hands resting on his knees, knuckles white from the cold or perhaps from the effort of holding himself together. He was a man who had spent twenty years in the service of the Bureau of...
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