The Wistful Saga
The cup in your hands is porcelain, thin as a wafer, and the tea inside is the color of weak blood. You are holding it with both hands, the way one holds a sick bird, and the steam rises in a thin, wavering line that breaks against the cold air of the archive. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and your hands are trembling. It is not the cold, though the Ministry of Internal Affairs is...
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