The Wistful Voyage
The velvet shawl lay coiled in Elias Thorne’s hands, its deep burgundy hue faded to the color of dried blood, the silk threads thinning until they were barely distinguishable from the heavy, moth-eaten dust that clung to its folds. It was a heavy thing, dense with the weight of its own history, and Elias held it with the same careful, trembling reverence he had once reserved for the fragile,...
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