The Wistful Voyage
The ink is black. The fog is white. You are Elias, and you are forty-two. You sit at the oak desk in the scriptorium, the air thick with the smell of rotting parchment. Your hands shake. You try to steady them, but the pen slips. A drop of ink falls onto the page, a black eye staring back at you. You need to finish the chronicle. The winter solstice is three days away. If the book is not bound...
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