The Wistful Voyage
The rain hammered against the canvas of the patrol wagon, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that seemed to vibrate in my teeth. I kept my eyes on the mud, watching the churn of the wheels, refusing to look at Silas. He sat across from me, his hands resting on his knees, fingers interlaced with a tightness that suggested he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. We were three days...
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