The Wistful Throne
The chair in the corner of the archive room did not creak. It did not settle. It simply breathed, a low, rhythmic exhalation that smelled of old paper and dried lavender. Elias sat before his desk, the final batch of institutional records spread out before him like a dissected body. He was forty-two, his hands stained with the grey dust of decades, and he wanted only one thing: tenure. To be...
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