The Distant Journey
The dream is always of the line. It is a single, unbroken stroke of black ink, stretching across a white void, vibrating with a tension that feels like a snapped wire. You wake with the taste of iron on your tongue, the cellar air thick and cold against your skin. It is 1912, the year the world turns on a hinge of steel and steam, and you are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a master engraver...
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