The Wistful Voyage
The ledger lay open on the desk, its pages thick with the smell of stale ink and cold dust. Arthur Vane counted the entries for the third time, his finger tracing the column of numbers until the blur of fatigue set in. It was November, 1924, and the air in the mill office was so thin it felt like it was pulling the warmth out of his bones. He wanted the foreman’s chair. He needed it. His...
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