The Wistful Dinner
The ink was still wet on the final line of the pension claim when the humming started. It began in the fillings of your back teeth, a low, vibrating thrum that matched the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a junior clerk in the Imperial Court, and you had spent the last six months trying to file the final report on the missing Archivist, Mr....
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