The Wistful Voyage
The rain in Oakhaven did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into a mirror for the gray sky. I am thirty-two years old, a junior clerk in the municipal office, and I want the position of Town Archivist. It is a small want, a quiet one, but it is the only thing keeping me from dissolving into the damp wood of my desk. The chair is too low, the ink...
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