The Wistful Atlas
The pen in Elias Thorne’s hand was not a tool of writing but a lever, its brass nib digging into the heavy, cream-colored paper of the confession form until the fiber began to tear, a small, white wound opening up in the center of the page. He did not look up; his eyes were fixed on the grain of the oak desk, on the circular scar where a previous inspector had dropped a coffee pot, and on the...
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