The Wistful Voyage

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2026-08-18 21:31:17 -

The fog was thick. It tasted of iron and wet wool. I stood in the hallway. My hands were still. They were always still. My mother’s hands were not. They moved. They wove. They knitted the air into something solid. I held the shawl. It was blue. Deep blue. The color of a bruise. The color of the sky before the storm broke. It was heavy. It smelled of lavender and decay. It was my mother’s last...

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