The Wistful Voyage
The ink on your surveying chart does not merely dry; it seeps, a slow, viscous bleed into the grain of the oak table, expanding like a bruise under the skin of the wood. You stand in the main hall of Blackwood Hall, the autumn light failing through the high, dust-choked windows, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floorboards that creak with a rhythm indistinguishable from a slow,...
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