The Wistful Letter
The champagne in your glass is stale, a flat, dead thing that tastes of copper and regret. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two, a tenured professor of entomology, and you are standing in the middle of the faculty gala, a feast of wine and pretense, holding a glass case no larger than a playing card. Inside the velvet lining, the Wistful beetle rests. It is iridescent, a shifting blue-green that...
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