The Wistful Voyage
The air in the vaulted cellar tasted of damp stone and ancient dust, a thick, heavy medium that seemed to press against the eardrums. Elias Thorne sat on a wooden crate, his hands resting on his knees, fingers stained with the dark residue of the ink he had spent three decades mixing. Around him, the shelves were lined not with books, but with jars. Thousands of them. Each contained a different...
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