The Wistful Voyage
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs in the air, a thick, gray curtain of mist that erodes the edges of the world and pulls you inward until you are nothing but a wet, shivering thing of bone and guilt. You are standing in the center of the study, a room that has smelled of old paper and pipe tobacco for as long as you can remember, yet today the air tastes of copper and iron, the...
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