The Wistful Letter
The warrant was written in the cramped, utilitarian script of the County Sheriff’s office, the ink slightly faded where the paper had been handled by too many damp fingers. Elias Thorne unfolded it on the table in the carriage, the leather creaking under the weight of his service belt. He was a man of thirty-four years, his face mapped with the fine lines of a life spent standing guard, and the...
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