The Distant Summer
The letter lay on the steel tray of the hospital cart, its edges crisp against the linoleum, bearing the official seal of the Bureau and the dry, bureaucratic scent of toner. Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old and currently confined to a bed in Room 402 of St. Jude’s, stared at the signature line where the Director of Operations had scrawled his name in a looping, authoritative hand that felt...
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