The Wistful Incense
The rain fell on the courtyard of St. Jude’s Academy with a heavy, relentless rhythm that turned the ancient cobblestones into a mirror of murky, churning water, and Elias Thorne stood in the center of it, his fifty-two-year-old body shivering not from the cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of the leather-bound ledger he clutched against his chest, a document that contained the fraudulent...
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