The Wistful Voyage
The ink on the ledger page smears, a dark, wet blotch that refuses to dry, and you watch it bleed into the fibers of the paper as your left hand trembles against the wood of the desk. It is November, 1912, and the air in the counting room of Vane & Sons Coal Supply is thick with the smell of coal dust and damp wool, a heaviness that settles in the lungs and refuses to leave. You are twelve...
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