The Wistful Grid
The hammer head, a cold block of high-carbon steel, lay in Elias Thorne’s palm, its surface slick with a fine mist of condensation that had nothing to do with the humidity in the room. He held it up to the fluorescent light of his glass-walled office, turning it slowly, inspecting the edge for the microscopic nicks that had accumulated over twenty years of service, a ritual of maintenance that...
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