The Wistful Voyage
You have three days, Julian, and I have no hands. That is the state of affairs as I sit before the furnace, the heat pressing against my face like a physical weight, a wall of orange air that makes the sweat sting in the cuts on my palms. I am writing this by the light of the coals, the paper curling slightly at the edges, because the candles in the workshop have burned down to nubs and I...
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