The Faded Quadrant
The letter lay on the table, the ink still wet, smelling of iron and cheap tallow. It was a bill for coal, three shillings, owed to Mr. Halloway, and beneath it, a second sheet, the pension application you had filled out in triplicate. Your hand trembled as you signed your name, Elias Thorne, Constable, Oakhaven. The paper crinkled under your thumb. Outside, the fog pressed against the...
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