The Wistful Dinner
The ink was still wet on the ledger page when I wiped the dust from my thumb, a gesture so small it barely registered, yet it felt like a betrayal against my own skin. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two, and I have spent the last three months in the basement archive of the Blackwood Estate, cataloging the private debts of a dead man to secure a position that pays twelve pounds a week and offers no...
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