The Wistful Voyage

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2026-08-20 15:33:13 -

The ink was wet, and it smelled of iron and old paper, a scent that had become the very air of my lungs. I sat in the narrow office, the walls lined with maps of territories that no longer existed, their borders drawn in lines so confident they seemed to carve reality itself. Outside, the rain lashed against the single window, a persistent, gray curtain that blurred the world into a watercolor...

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