The Wistful Voyage
The rain in Seattle did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray mist that clung to the skin of the city and the skin of the people who moved through it, a pervasive dampness that seeped into the joints and the marrow and the old, calcified guilt that had settled in the bones of Elias Thorne like sediment in a stagnant pond, leaving him gasping for air in the sterile, fluorescent-lit...
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