The Wistful Voyage
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey sheet that turned the cobblestones of the old district into a slick, mirror-like expanse reflecting the dim, yellowed glow of the streetlamps, and it was in this persistent, damp silence that I stood before the heavy oak door of the municipal archive, clutching a leather satchel that felt less like a container for documents and more...
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