The Pale Tower
The train hissed its final, breathless complaint against the gravel and then settled into a shudder that felt less like motion and more like the body of a beast refusing to die. Elias stood at the window, his reflection a ghostly smear of grey wool and hollow eyes superimposed over the churning black mud of the Irish bogland. He was leaving, or so the ticket in his pocket suggested, but the...
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