The Wistful Witness
The letter lay on the kitchen table, its cream envelope stained with the damp of the October rain that had been leaking through the roof of the study for three weeks. Elias Thorne sat in the chair opposite, his uniform still on, the wool itchy against his neck, and read the notice of final demand from the bank. The numbers were cold, precise, and final: forty-two thousand dollars, accrued...
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