The Wistful Voyage
Kaito Sasaki’s hands shook as he pressed the inkstone against the paper, the friction loud in the silent archive. The smell of iron gall ink was sharp, biting his nostrils, a scent that had replaced the sterile ozone of the server room where he had once lived on contract wages. He was thirty-two, and the only thing he owned that mattered was a high school diploma, unclaimed for six years,...
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