The Wistful Saga
The glass vial rolled across the polished mahogany tray table, stopping with a soft, hollow click against the metal ashtray. Arthur’s hand hovered over it, fingers trembling not from cold, but from the sudden, violent arrhythmia that had seized his chest like a iron clamp. He was forty-five, an actuary for a mid-sized insurance firm in Manchester, a man who had spent two decades calculating the...
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