The Wistful Voyage

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2026-08-23 02:21:23 -

The dream is always the same. Wisteria. Purple, heavy, drooping from a trellis that creaks in a wind you cannot feel. You are in the garden of the house on Elm Street, the one you sold three years ago when Margaret died of the consumption. The flowers are not beautiful. They are aggressive. They choke the light. You wake in the narrow bunk of your stateroom, the ship *The Iron Meridian* rolling...

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