The Wistful Grid
Thorne. That was how Halloway addressed me, not by name, but by the function I served, a label stamped onto the back of a file folder. I write this to you, Director, from the remote archive in the Highlands, where the wind screeches against the stone walls like a living thing trying to get in. I am demanding the return of the astrolabe I have spent three years restoring. It is currently sitting...
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