The Wistful Saga
The leather-bound ledger sat open on the scarred oak desk, its pages swollen with the damp that crept up from the cellar floor, and I held a fresh stick of black ink between my thumb and forefinger, watching the liquid pool in the grooves of my knuckles. I am Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, a constable of the Old Quarter, and I have twenty-six years of service logged in the municipal...
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