The Faded Paradox
The champagne flutes on the buffet table were filled to a precise level, forty-five millimeters of cold, golden liquid, matching the number of years Warden Elias Thorne had served the Department of Corrections. He stood by the silver tray, his hand resting on the stem of a glass he did not intend to drink, counting the seconds between the Director’s speeches while the chandeliers above cast a...
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