The Wistful Silence
The letter lay flat on the oak desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry, heated air of the archive. It was a standard HR notice, printed on heavy cream stock, detailing the mandatory retirement protocol for staff over fifty, effective in twenty-one days. Elias Thorne read it twice, not for the legalities, which he knew by heart, but for the cold, bureaucratic indifference of the font. He...
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