The Wistful Grid
The pen slips from your fingers and lands on the desk with a sound like a bone snapping. You pick it up, wiping the ink from the tip against the edge of the mahogany blotter, which is stained with years of coffee and cheap tobacco. The office is small, the walls lined with metal filing cabinets that hum with a low, electric anxiety, and the rain outside beats against the single window in a...
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