The Wistful Atlas
The letter lay on the desk, its envelope unsealed, the ink still wet where the postmark had pressed against the paper. Elias Thorne held his hand over the document, his fingers trembling slightly, a tremor that had begun in the joints three months ago and now lived in the tips of his right hand like a restless insect. He was fifty-two years old, and the draft in the study of the ancestral home...
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