The Distant Joke
The rain lashed against the single pane of glass in Elias Thorne’s study, a rhythmic, percussive assault that seemed to vibrate through the very bones of the building. At fifty-two, Elias possessed the eyes of a man half his age, a cruel irony that had rendered his life’s work, the definitive translation of the *Codex Aurelius*, a fragile and fading dream. He sat in the gloom, the heavy oak...
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