The Wistful Voyage
The notice on the door is yellowed at the edges, the ink faded to a bruised purple, but the date is clear enough to cut. It is November, and the wind off the moor has a bite to it that finds the gaps in Blackwood Hall’s drafty shutters. You stand in the center of the hallway, the floorboards creaking under the weight of your stillness, looking at the paper that dictates your life. Thirty-two...
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