The Distant Metropolis
The snow outside the window of Room 4B had not stopped for three days, a relentless, white erasure that turned the landscape into a single, blinding sheet of paper. Elias Thorne, forty-two years old and architect of a mind that had once designed the curved glass facades of the city’s financial district, stood before the full-length mirror in the center of the room, watching the figure behind...
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