The Pale Letter
The train moved through the night with a rhythmic, mechanical hum, a vibration that traveled up through the soles of Thomas Bradshaw’s boots and settled deep in his bones. He sat in the rear of the compartment, a single figure against the dim, amber glow of the overhead light. The other seats were empty, the small table bare save for a crumpled napkin and the faint, ghostly outline of a coffee...
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