The Wistful Voyage
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled from the bruised belly of the sky, a thick, grey mist that clung to the limestone walls of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Preservation of Heritage, a sprawling, gothic beast of a building that seemed to grow out of the damp earth of the English countryside like a malignant tumor of stone and ivy. I stood at the window of the archive room, my...
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