The Distant Journey
The letter lay on the desk, its seal broken, the ink still wet with the official damp of the municipal office. Elias Thorne read the figures twice, the numbers blurring slightly as his lung hitched in its familiar, rusted rhythm. Four years of service. Four years of night shifts in the chemical district. Four years of coughing blood into a handkerchief that he burned every morning. The pension...
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