The Wistful Voyage
The rain had not stopped for three days, a steady, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the town and softened the sharpness of the world. I stood at the window of my small apartment, watching the water drip from the eaves of the bakery next door, each drop falling with a rhythmic, mournful precision. In my hands, I held the brass compass. It was a beautiful thing, its casing worn smooth by...
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