The Faded Quadrant
The letter lay on the desk, its edges soft from handling, the ink faded to a ghostly brown. You read it three times, the paper thinning under your thumb, the words blurring in the afternoon light that slanted through the high, dust-choked windows of the Meridian Institute. It was a standard rejection notice, really, but the signature at the bottom belonged to a man who had not existed in the...
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