The Wistful Voyage
The rain tapped against the glass. It was a steady, industrial rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thomas stood by the window. He watched the street below. The cobblestones glistened. A single elm tree stood in the square. Its leaves were gone. Only the branches remained. They clawed at the grey sky. The tree was still. The tree was always still. Thomas turned from the window. He held a ledger. The pages...
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