The Wistful Voyage
The fog did not roll in; it arrived with the precise, bureaucratic certainty of a tax assessment, pressing against the glass of the customs office window at the port of Ostra until the sealant cracked. Elias Vane, a junior clerk of forty years with ink-stained fingers and a spine that had long since forgotten how to curve, sat at his desk and felt the grey substance seep through the keyhole,...
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