The Wistful Voyage
The clock in the study did not tick; it breathed, a slow, rhythmic expansion and contraction of brass and wood that filled the silence of the room with the sound of time itself being consumed. I sat at the edge of my desk, my fingers wrapped around a porcelain cup of tea that had long since gone cold, the ceramic cool against my skin like the touch of a ghost. The object was not merely a vessel...
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