The Wistful Throne
The rain in Harrowgate did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his office in the Municipal Archive, watching the water streak down the glass, blurring the view of the gray city below. He was forty-two, a man who had spent two decades organizing the past, and now he was preparing to destroy his future. The letter from the hospital lay on...
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