The Wistful Mirror
Thorne, get your boots on. The voice came from the doorway, not loud, but it carried the specific weight of a man who had just decided that my retirement was a bureaucratic error I was about to correct. I looked up from the pension form on my desk, the pen still hovering over the signature line, the ink wet and black as a bruise. The form was standard issue, a beige rectangle of federal...
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