The Wistful Dinner
The rain against the high windows of the Ministry of Internal Affairs was not a sound so much as a pressure, a heavy, gray weight that pressed against the glass and, by extension, against the mind of Elias Thorne. He sat alone in the antechamber, a space designed to intimidate with its excess of mahogany and silence. The room smelled of old paper and damp wool. On the desk before him lay a...
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