The Pale Echo
The audit letter lay on the desk, its paper thin and brittle as a dried leaf. Elias Thorne picked it up, the ink smudged where his thumb had pressed too hard. He read the date, then the name, then the charge: Complicity in Falsification of Records. He set it down. The wood of the desk was cold, scarred by decades of coffee rings and pen nicks. Outside, the rain hammered against the single, high...
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