The Wistful Voyage
The feast is not a celebration but a siege, a slow, rhythmic pounding of the chest against the ribs of the stone hall where you sit, bound not by rope but by the heavy, suffocating weight of your own sin. You are Thomas, or rather, you are the shadow of Thomas that remains when the flesh has been stripped away by hunger and the cold, and you wear this name like a ill-fitting coat that you...
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