The Wistful Voyage

added blog Literature

2026-08-26 04:43:52 -

My hands were black with the mud of the cellar floor, the grit working itself into the creases of my knuckles as I clawed at the slick stone, trying to find the footing that had betrayed me three steps up. I was twelve years old, and my lungs burned with the damp, stale air that smelled of rotting oak and old iron, a scent that had soaked into the very plaster of Blackwood Manor until it seemed...

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