The Wistful Ashes
The heavy, cream-colored envelope sat in Elias Thorne’s hands, its paper thick and expensive, costing three shillings a sheet, a sum that represented two days’ wages for a man of his modest pension. He held it up to the window of his cramped office, where the London fog pressed against the glass like a damp cloth, and watched the ink of his signature, *E. Thorne, D.Lit.*, tremble on the page....
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