The Wistful Silence
The ledger on Elias Thorne’s desk held twelve hours of overtime, three seized crates of unmarked ammunition, and a single, fading coffee ring that marked the spot where he sat every morning at 06:00. He counted the hours again, the ink smudged where his thumb had brushed the paper, knowing that by the time the Commissioner signed the promotion order, the month would be over and the position...
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