The Wistful Voyage
The carriage wheels groaned against the cobblestones of the old city, a sound that had become the rhythm of my own failing heartbeat since we left the countryside. I sat in the corner, my hands folded tightly in my lap, watching the rain streak the glass in erratic, weeping lines. The air inside was thick with the scent of damp wool, stale lavender, and the metallic tang of fear. I was not a...
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