The Wistful Dinner
"It is clutter, Elias. Pure, unregenerable clutter." Mr. Sterling did not look up from his ledger. His pen moved with the mechanical precision of a clock hand, scratching against the paper, the sound sharp and dry in the quiet of the upper archive. The light from the high windows was thinning, turning the dust motes into suspended grey ash. Elias stood by the desk, holding the first volume of...
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