The Wistful Atlas
The letter lay on the scarred wooden bench, its edges curling slightly in the dry, heated air of the Duluth station, and you read it twice, the ink of the denial stark against the cream paper, the words "insufficient temperament" underlined in red by a hand that seemed to tremble with bureaucratic contempt. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, and you have spent the last six hours...
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