The Distant Journey
The ink was not yet dry on the last page of the manuscript, but the smell of it—sharp, iron-rich, and faintly sweet—already hung in the air of the study like a ghost. Elias Thorne sat before the fire, his hands trembling not from the chill of the November wind that rattled the tall, narrow windows, but from the sudden, violent clarity that had struck him moments prior. He was a man of letters,...
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