The Golden Echoes
The train cut through the mist of the Yorkshire moors like a blade through wet wool, its iron wheels screaming a high, thin note that vibrated in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones. He sat alone in the second-class carriage, his uniform pressed to a crisp severity that belied the trembling of his hands, which he kept hidden beneath the dark wool of his coat. The year was 1911, and the air...
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