The Wistful Voyage
The rain did not fall so much as it was pressed down from the sky, a heavy, grey hand pinning the world to the earth. You are standing in the narrow corridor of the ferry, the wood slick under your boots, the air thick with the smell of wet wool and diesel and the metallic tang of fear that has no name but is distinct enough to taste. Your hand rests on the brass plaque above the door to the...
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