The Distant Journey
The coffee cup sat on the desk, heavy with a liquid that refused to flow. Leonard Carmichael stared at it, his right hand hovering above the rim, the tremor in his fingers a faint, rhythmic buzz against the silence of the office. The liquid inside was not coffee. It was a viscous, amber syrup, thick as molasses, swirling slowly without any wind to push it. He had dreamed of this again. The...
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