The Wistful Dinner
The basement of the Whitmore Library smelled of damp limestone and the sharp, metallic tang of superglue, a scent that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the slow erosion of his own sanity over the past three weeks. He sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, the fluorescent tube above him flickering with a stuttering, arrhythmic pulse that cast his face in intermittent shades of sickly...
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