The Wistful Voyage
The candle guttered. "Do you hear it?" Thomas Ashworth did not look up from his ledger. His quill scratched a thin, sharp line across the parchment. "No." "Listen." He paused. The scratching stopped. In the silence, the house breathed. It was a heavy, wooden sigh, the sound of old timber settling under the weight of centuries. "It is only the wind," Thomas said. "We are in November. The draft...
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