The Wistful Dinner
The clock in the antechamber ticked backward. It was a sound so faint, so rhythmic in its wrongness, that Elias Thorne had learned to ignore it, or so he told himself. He was forty years old, a court clerk with ink-stained fingers and a spine curved from decades of hunching over parchment. His want was simple, mundane, and desperate: a quiet promotion to Senior Registrar. It would secure his...
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