The Wistful Skyline
The letter lay on the desk, the paper yellowed and brittle at the edges, smelling faintly of damp earth and old ink. Elias Thorne held it in his left hand, the one that still ached from the arthritis that had settled in his knuckles over the last decade of handling heavy ledgers and brittle spines. He read the final line again, the one that confirmed Silas Vane had died three weeks ago, leaving...
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