The Wistful Voyage
The heavy, moth-eaten coat of his father hung on the back of a bent iron chair in the corner of the kitchen, a shadow that seemed to breathe with the dampness of the November air, and young Thomas stood before it, his small hands trembling not from the cold that seeped through the floorboards but from the terrible, humming weight of the silence that had settled over the house since his mother’s...
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