The Wistful Voyage
The rain lashed against the leaded glass of the customs house, a rhythmic, metallic drumming that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the slow, grinding erosion of his own life. He stood before the mahogany desk, his hands trembling not from the cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of the form he was signing, a document that would formally report his own household for the possession of...
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