The Wistful Letter
The rain against the windows of the Blackwood Institute does not fall; it presses, a grey, relentless thumb against the glass, as if the weather itself is trying to look in. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a junior archivist whose tenure hangs by a thread thinner than the paper you handle, and you are currently losing a war against ink. The audit by the board of directors is in...
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