The Faded Paradox
The letter from the Admiralty was crisp, white, and final, a stark contrast to the yellowed parchment of my father’s journal that I clutched in my other hand. I stood on the dock at Gravesend, the mist rolling in off the Thames like a shroud, and watched the last of my worldly goods—three crates of instruments, a trunk of clothes, and a single bottle of brandy—being loaded onto the barge. My...
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