The Wistful Skyline
The ink in the pen was drying in the well, a dark, viscous bead that refused to flow, and you held the stylus with a grip that had gone white-knuckled over the last decade, the plastic casing slick with sweat against your palm. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two, a senior corrections officer at St. Jude’s, and you wanted nothing more than to sign the daily log for the quiet wing, secure your...
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