The Wistful Voyage
The dream came to Thomas Whitmore not as a vision of light or glory, but as a heavy, suffocating weight of wet wool and the scent of ancient, rotting cedar, a sensory assault that pinned his consciousness to the floor of his workshop while the rain hammered against the leaded glass of the transom, blurring the world outside into a smear of grey and black. He was not in his shop in the village...
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