The Wistful Ashes
Thorne. The voice came from the intercom, a flat, synthetic buzz that cut through the hum of the ventilation system in the restricted sub-basement of the State Memory Bureau. Elias Thorne did not look up from the cataloging station; he merely adjusted the angle of his magnifying loupe, his fingers moving with the precise, detached efficiency of a man who had long ago traded the volatility of...
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