The Distant Journey
Act I I left the satchel by the door, the leather stiff with cold, and stood in the hallway watching my own reflection. The man in the glass was old. His face was hollowed out, the skin pulled tight over cheekbones that looked like they had been carved from driftwood. I was thirty-two. I should have looked tired, yes, but not eroded. I packed the last of my papers, the census forms for the...
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