The Wistful Voyage
The wheelhouse smelled of wet wool and rusted iron, a scent that had seeped into the very grain of the wooden walls until it was impossible to breathe without tasting the decay of the vessel itself. Captain Elias Thorne sat rigid in his chair, his spine a steel rod that had long since fused with the backrest, watching the rain streak the porthole glass in frantic, vertical lines that blurred...
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