The Faded Guest
The ledger is not where the inventory says it is, Mr. Thorne. I set the inkwell down with a care that felt like a violation, the glass clinking softly against the mahogany surface of the desk in the West Wing archive. The sound was small, a sharp tick in the vast, dry silence of the room, but it seemed to hang in the air, waiting for a response that would not come. I am Elias Thorne, and I have...
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