The Wistful Voyage
The rain did not fall so much as it accumulated, a heavy, grey static that pressed against the leaded windows of the High Court until the glass groaned under the weight of the sky. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool, old paper, and the metallic tang of ozone that had begun to bleed through the walls. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; the calendar had lost its meaning...
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