The Wistful Dinner
Thorne. The name hung in the drafty air of the parlor, called out by the silence itself. Elias Thorne, forty-two, sat alone at the desk, staring at the withered wisteria vine on the windowsill. He wanted the post of Archivist. He wanted it badly enough to swallow his pride, to swallow the truth, to swallow the three names that did not belong on the casualty list. The opposing force was not a...
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