The Golden Oath
The brass plate on the door of Station Three had been polished until it was nearly invisible, a ghost of a name, Whitmore, etched in a script so fine it seemed to be merely a scratch on the metal, and he stood before it with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his greatcoat, feeling the cold of the November morning seep through the wool and settle into his marrow, and he thought about the...
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