The Wistful Voyage
The ink on the ledger was still wet, glistening like a fresh wound in the center of the heavy oak desk, and Thomas stood before it with the rigid, breathless stillness of a boy who has forgotten how to blink, his fingers trembling so violently against the polished wood that the vibration traveled up through the bone of his wrist and settled, cold and sharp, in the hollow of his chest, a...
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