The Wistful Mirror
The call came from the hallway, a sharp, barking voice that cut through the grey morning like a wire. "Elias! You are late for the bank." It was not Julian. Julian was in the kitchen, drinking black tea, his face a mask of polite skepticism. But the voice carried the weight of authority, the tone of a superior addressing a subordinate who had failed in his duties. Elias Thorne, fifty-two, a...
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