The Wistful Voyage
The basement smelled of wet wool and old paper, a scent that had long since seeped into the fabric of Elias Thorne’s clothes and the very pores of his skin. He was packing his desk, a cramped rectangle of laminate that held thirty years of dust and quiet desperation, when the door above him creaked open and the shadow of Mr. Vane fell across the floorboards. Vane did not speak, but his presence...
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