The Wistful Saga
Thorne, you’re blocking the corridor. The voice came from behind you, sharp and clipped, cutting through the low hum of the air conditioning that had been rattling since Tuesday. You turned, your shoulders stiff against the wool of your suit jacket, to see Mrs. Gable standing at the end of the hallway, her fingers drumming a rhythmic tap against the leather folder in her hand. She did not wait...
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