The Wistful Saga
March 14, 2024. The rain against the window of the archive room is a rhythmic, persistent tapping, a sound that has begun to feel less like weather and more like a countdown, a mechanical erosion of the hours I have left to secure what is mine, a tenure that rests on the fragile, ink-stained shoulders of a dead man. I am fifty-two years old, Elias Thorne, and my eyes ache with a dull, throbbing...
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