The Wistful Voyage
The lighthouse stood at the edge of the world, a brutalist slab of concrete and iron that seemed less like a structure built by human hands and more like a monolith dropped from the sky by a god who had forgotten to finish the job, looming over the grey, churning waters with a permanence that mocked the ephemeral nature of the men who guarded it, and Thomas Bradshaw stood on the gallery, his...
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