The Wistful Ashes
The air in the basement laboratory of the Meridian Chemical Works tasted of sulfur and despair, a thick, greasy film that coated Elias Thorne’s tongue as he watched the amber liquid swirl in the beaker. He was thirty-two years old, a man whose life had been reduced to the precise measurement of grams and milliliters, and his hands trembled not from age but from the sheer, desperate gravity of...
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