The Distant Summer
The quarterly ledger lay open on Elias Thorne’s desk, its pages stiff with the dust of the office and the weight of his own hesitation. He had been staring at the column of figures for three hours, the ink blurring into a dark, viscous smear that refused to resolve into numbers. The air in the room was thick, pressing against his eardrums with a low, rhythmic hum that vibrated in the roots of...
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