The Wistful Asylum
The ceramic plate shattered under the weight of Elias Thorne’s thumb, the sound a sharp, brittle crack that echoed in the sterile silence of the forensic lab. He did not flinch, nor did he lower his magnifying loupe, his eyes fixed on the spiderweb of fractures radiating from the center of the dish. He was fifty-eight, and his hands, once steady enough to reconstruct a shattered jawbone from...
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