The Wistful Ashes
The ledger in your hands feels heavier than paper should, its spine cracked and brittle with the damp rot of the cellar where it has sat for three years, and you know that if you do not prove its authenticity by Friday, the Board of Directors will strip you of your position and leave you to starve in the same town that buried your father’s reputation. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two, an...
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