The Wistful Silence
The ledger showed four hundred and twelve pages remaining, a weight of paper that felt heavier than the oak desk Elias Thorne had been sitting on for the last nine hours. He counted them again, his finger dragging across the brittle spines, a physical audit of his own dwindling tenure. The board’s arrival was scheduled for Tuesday, a date that loomed over the archive like a storm front that...
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