The Wistful Voyage
The rain had been falling for three days, a steady, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the city and turned the cobblestones of St. Jude’s Lane into slick, reflective mirrors that seemed to swallow the light whole. Elias Thorne stood in the doorway of his workshop, the air thick with the smell of varnish, wet wool, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that always preceded a storm, watching...
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