The Distant Journey
The rain lashed the iron windows. It was a cold, industrial rain. The kind that ate metal. Elias stood at the glass. He watched the streets below. The city was a grid of gray. Steam rose from the grates. It curled like smoke. Like a ghost. He was old. His hands shook. He held them still. He had to. He was a prisoner. Not in a cell. In his body. In his time. The clock on the wall ticked. Tick....
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