The Distant Journey

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2026-08-23 09:15:45 -

14 October 1912. The ink is moving. I write this in the service log, my hand trembling not from the cold, but from the weight of what is seeping into the grain of my skin. It began three days ago, in the charred remains of the Miller warehouse, a soot-black residue that clings to the epidermis like a second layer of flesh. It whispers. Not in words, at first, but in the sudden, sharp certainty...

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