The Wistful Letter
The crystal decanter caught the light of the chandeliers, refracting it into sharp, staccato bursts that danced across the polished mahogany of the Ministry of Records’ grand hall. Elias Thorne stood at the periphery of the centennial banquet, his left hand trembling so violently that the wine in his glass sloshed against the rim, threatening to spill over the white tablecloth. He was...
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