The Wistful Atlas
The pen was heavy, a brass instrument with a nib that caught the fluorescent light, and Elias Thorne held it in his left hand as if it were a weapon he had forgotten how to use. He stood in the center of the rotunda, the marble floor cold against the soles of his boots, the air thick with a subsonic hum that vibrated in his molars. The Department of Justice building was a monument to silence,...
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