The Wistful Mirror
The locomotive groaned like a dying beast as it dragged the train northward through the sleet, a rhythmic, iron-heavy thrum that vibrated in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones. He sat in the corner of the third-class carriage, a solitary figure wrapped in a wool coat that had seen better decades, his hands resting on the cold steel of the seat beside him. In his lap lay a leather satchel, worn...
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