The Wistful Skyline
The letter lay on the steel desk, its edges curling slightly in the damp air of the detention center’s administrative wing, the ink smudged where a thumb had pressed too hard during the signing. Elias Thorne held it with a grip that whitened his knuckles, the leather of his service notebook, worn smooth by twenty years of handling, digging into his palm like a second skin. He was forty-two, and...
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