The Golden Myth
The locomotive’s iron lungs hissed and rattled against the dark, a mechanical beast straining against the weight of the night, while Elias Thorne stood at the end of the platform, his hand resting heavily on the brass railing, feeling the vibration of the tracks travel up through his worn leather boots and into the very marrow of his bones. The air smelled of coal smoke, damp wool, and the...
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