The Wistful Voyage
The fog in the valley did not lift; it merely thickened, settling into the wool of Harrow’s coat like damp moss. He stood alone in the archive room of the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Mentally Ill, the air heavy with the scent of mildew and old paper, a smell that had become indistinguishable from the scent of his own wife, Elara, who had been committed to these very walls three months prior....
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