The Wistful Voyage
The ink was cold, a physical weight against my knuckles, seeping into the pores of my left hand with a chill that had nothing to do with the damp air of the archive, and I was pulling at it, trying to scrub the blackness from my skin while the water around me rose, rising, rising until it covered my mouth and I woke up gasping, my sheets twisted tight in my grip, the taste of iron and old paper...
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