The Wistful Voyage
The iron key in Elias Thorne’s pocket felt heavy, a cold anchor against his thigh. He stood in the foyer of the Victorian manor, the air thick with the scent of damp plaster and old wood. His daughter, Mara, watched him from the shadows of the hallway, her eyes wide with a devotion that bordered on obsession. Elias was fifty-four, but the mirror in the hall showed a man eroding, his face a map...
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