The Distant Metropolis
The letter lay on the desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry heat of the archive room, a stark white rectangle against the dark oak surface. Elias Thorne picked it up, his fingers stained with the faint, permanent yellow of old ink, and read the date at the top: November 14th. It was a routine notification from the city’s financial office, confirming the final deposit of his pension funds,...
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