The Wistful Saga
Elias. The name hung in the air of the bank office, spoken by Mr. Thorne with the flat, clipped precision of a man stamping a document. It was not a greeting, but a summons, a call to order that cut through the low hum of the fluorescent lights. You sat in the vinyl chair, the one that squeaked when you shifted your weight, and watched Thorne slide a manila folder across the linoleum desk. The...
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