The Wistful Atlas
The morning air tasted of wet ash and stale coffee, a flavor that had settled into the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones over the three weeks since the incident, a taste that was less a sensory experience and more a physical weight, a grinding pressure behind the eyes that made the world look blurred and distant, like a photograph left out in the rain. He sat at the head of the long mahogany table...
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