The Distant Promise
The ink on the page was still wet, a dark, viscous smear that seemed to pulse against the grain of the heavy bond paper, and Elias Thorne held the ledger up to the single, dusty window of the Blackwood library, his breath fogging the cold glass in a sharp, rhythmic plume. He was thirty-four years old, a fact that felt increasingly abstract in the suffocating, dust-choked silence of the room,...
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