The Distant Affair
The brass weight on the balance scale tipped three grams to the left, and Elias Thorne noted the discrepancy in his ledger with a stroke of iron-gall ink. He had been counting the seconds for the last hour, not with the clock, but with the rhythmic, wet coughing of his own lungs, a metronome that grew slower as the minutes bled out of the afternoon. The Grand Meridian, the institution’s central...
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