The Distant Journey
"You look tired, Thomas," the voice said, not from behind me, but from the steam that curled off the ironing board. I did not turn around. I pressed the hot iron against the white cotton shirt, feeling the sizzle of moisture escaping the fabric, a sound like a small animal crying out in pain. The room was the laundry room of the Grand Hotel, a place that smelled of lye and damp wool, a place...
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