The Wistful Voyage
The frost had begun again, creeping up the glass of the supply room window in a pattern so precise it looked drawn by a steady hand, a fern-like fractal that Elias Thorne traced with a fingernail while he checked the fuel gauges. It was November fourteenth, and the air in the post was thick with the smell of stale diesel and the metallic tang of his own blood, a taste he had grown accustomed to...
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