The Wistful Dinner
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the high, narrow windows of the archive, a rhythmic tapping that seemed to count the seconds of a life held in suspension. Elias Thorne stood by the radiator, his coat still on, the wool heavy and damp. It was a charcoal grey thing, worn thin at the elbows, smelling of pipe tobacco and old paper. He watched the steam rise from the...
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