The Faded Sutra
Thorne, stop that. Mrs. Gable’s voice cut through the hum of the air conditioning, sharp as a paper cut. You are holding the spine wrong. You will crack the binding. Elias Thorne adjusted his grip on the volume, his fingers trembling slightly against the leather. The book was heavy, heavier than its size suggested, and it pulled at his wrist with a damp, clinging weight. He was thirty-four...
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