The Wistful Saga
The ink was still wet on the signature line when the door to my office swung open, the brass latch clanging against the wood with a sound that felt too loud in the quiet afternoon. I did not look up from the ledger. I was tallying the final quarter’s municipal receipts, the numbers aligning with the satisfying click of a pen nib scratching against paper, when the shadow of Mr. Hale fell across...
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