The Distant Clue
The feast was a thing of iron and steam, held in the belly of a locomotive that had not moved in three days. The air was thick with the smell of boiled mutton, wet wool, and the metallic tang of the boiler’s breath. You sat at the long table, your hands folded beneath the cloth, watching the oil lamps flicker against the soot-stained windows. Outside, the world was a void, a white nothingness...
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