The Wistful Voyage
The ink was cold. It sat on the page like a small, black wound. Elias Thorne held the pen with a grip that trembled, not from age, but from the sheer physical weight of the silence in the room. The train moved. The rhythm of the wheels was a metronome for his pulse. Click. Click. Click. Outside, the grey landscape of the moor blurred into a smear of slate and iron. He was not supposed to be...
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