The Distant Journey
The rain has been falling for three days, a persistent, grey curtain that turns the cobblestones outside the window into slick, dark mirrors. You are Elara, thirty-two years old, and you are dying, though you have not yet said it aloud. The cough is a physical thing, a jagged stone in your chest that grinds against your ribs with every breath, silencing your voice until you are little more than...
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