The Wistful Saga
The wine was cheap, but the laughter in the Great Hall was expensive, and I was buying it all. I stood by the marble column, holding a glass of claret that had gone warm in my hand, watching the Museum Board toasts to their own brilliance. I was Elias Thorne, forty-two, a senior archivist who had spent thirty years dusting other men’s glories, and tonight I was the butt of their jokes. Director...
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