The Wistful Voyage
The vial sat on the bedside table, a sliver of amber glass holding a liquid that was not yet medicine, only potential. Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old and trembling with the specific exhaustion of a man who has been fighting a war in his own marrow for three years, watched the condensation bead on the cold surface. He wanted to live long enough to see Mara in a white dress, to stand in the...
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