The Wistful Voyage
The wind does not howl here; it screams, a high, thin shriek that vibrates in the teeth and rattles the fillings in the jaw, a constant reminder that the stone walls are only a thin barrier against the indifferent chaos of the Atlantic. I am writing this from the keeper’s quarters on the northern rock, a place where the light has been dark for three hours and the silence is louder than the...
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