The Distant Whispers
The champagne was cold, but Elias Thorne drank it anyway, the bubbles sharp against his tongue as he surveyed the atrium of the Meridian Tower. The glass ceiling stretched overhead like a frozen sky, reflecting the chandeliers and the three hundred guests who had gathered to celebrate the building’s completion. He was fifty-two, his hair thinning at the temples, and he felt the weight of the...
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