The Wistful Voyage
The gate is locked. You know this. You have checked it three times. The iron is cold against your palm, slick with the morning dew that hangs heavy in the orchard. You are here to stop the boy. He is your son. He is also a thief, according to the ledger you hold in your other hand. The paper is damp. The ink is bleeding. Thomas stands by the cart. He is not looking at you. He is looking at the...
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