The Wistful Voyage
The air in the apothecary smelled of dried lavender and old parchment, a scent that had settled into the very grain of the oak shelves over three decades. Elias Thorne stood before the large, convex mirror that hung by the north window, adjusting the brass fastenings of his spectacles. The glass was thick and slightly warped, a relic from a time when lenses were ground by hand rather than cast...
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