The Wistful Voyage
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a silence that broke the world open. You remember the smell of it before you saw the smoke, a sharp, metallic tang of burning oak and dried rosemary that filled the narrow streets of Oakhaven. It was the autumn of your tenure, the year the Council had finally granted you the title of Keeper of the Archive, a position that was less a job and more a...
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