The Distant Affair
The ledger lay open on the scarred oak table, its pages brittle with age and damp, the ink of the dates smudged into brownish ghosts that bled into the parchment like old wounds refusing to close. Elias Thorne, forty years old and possessed of a mind that had long since outgrown the comfort of mere speculation, stared at the column of names, each one crossed out with a red ink that had faded to...
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