The Wistful Silence
The roast goose glistens under the chandelier, its skin crisp and golden, but you do not taste the fat as it pools on the plate; you taste only the metallic tang of the dismissal letter you have read three times since breakfast. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, and the silence of the room is not empty but heavy, a physical weight that presses against your eardrums. The oak...
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