The Wistful Voyage
The jar sat on the workbench, a squat cylinder of blown glass that had once held saffron, now holding only the dust of the cellar and the silence of the house. Elias Thorne did not look at it directly. To look at it was to invite a grief so heavy it might crush the ribs, so he kept his eyes fixed on the grain of the oak table, where the knife marks of thirty years formed a map of his failures....
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