The Distant Journey

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2026-08-23 23:51:39 -

The pen is a heavy thing, a slab of black lacquer that weighs down the hand like a small, cold stone. You hold it over the leather-bound ledger, the ink still wet, and watch the tip tremble slightly as you prepare to write the date. It is November the fourteenth. The temperature in the watchtower is forty degrees, though the thermometer on the wall reads fifty, a discrepancy you have noted for...

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