The Wistful Voyage
The snow had not stopped for three days, a relentless gray curtain that erased the distinction between the road and the fields. I sat in the constable’s booth, my hands wrapped around a mug of cold tea, watching the sleet streak the window. The parchment in my pocket felt heavy, a physical weight against my hip. It was a pardon, signed by the magistrate, destined for Silas. He was to be hanged...
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