The Distant Garden
The train arrived in Harrowgate with a shudder that vibrated through the soles of Elias Thorne’s boots, a mechanical groan that seemed to echo the ache in his own joints. It was 1892, and the air smelled of coal smoke and wet wool, a pungent mixture that clung to the skin and refused to leave. Elias stood on the platform, his travel bag heavy against his shoulder, not with gold or jewels, but...
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