The Wistful Mirror
The rain did not fall so much as it existed, a pervasive, grey mist that clung to the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and seeped into the marrow of his bones. He walked the long, wet causeway toward the Meridian Institute, a sprawling brutalist complex of concrete and glass that seemed to grow out of the mud like a malignant tumor. It was a place of bureaucracy, of endless corridors and humming...
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