The Wistful Voyage
The fog that rolled in from the harbor did not merely obscure the world; it consumed it, a thick, grey wool that wrapped around the spires of the cathedral and the soot-stained chimneys of the textile mills until they were nothing more than vague, trembling shadows in a sea of damp, and I stood at the edge of the pier, my hands gripping the cold, salt-slicked wood of the railing with a...
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