The Distant Affair
The ink on my report to the City Council was still wet when I handed it to the clerk, a glossy, dark smear that seemed to bleed into the cheap bond paper with a scent of damp earth and rot that no amount of ventilation could scrub away. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a structural assessor for the Department of Public Works, and I had spent the last three weeks inside the St. Jude’s...
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