The Wistful Voyage
The memo was pinned to the corkboard with a rusted thumbtack, the paper yellowed at the edges, smelling of the damp that had long since seeped into the walls of the basement archive. Elias Thorne stared at it, his fingers hovering over the ink, the words "Final Review: Friday" vibrating in his peripheral vision. He was forty-two, a senior archivist at the St. Jude’s Institute, and he wanted to...
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