The Wistful Mirror
The rain against the windowpane of the administrative office was not a sound, but a texture. It was a granular, persistent friction, like sandpaper drawn slowly over a closed eye. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed chair, the leather cracked and worn in the exact shape of his spine. He was an auditor of the soul, a title that had once carried weight and now carried only the damp chill of the...
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