The Wistful Voyage
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that blurred the world into a watercolor of slate and rust, and I sat in the damp corner of the tavern, my back against the cold stone, watching the candlelight tremble on the wet flagstones, knowing that if I looked up, if I dared to meet the eyes of the man standing in the doorway, I would lose the last fragment of the peace...
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