The Wistful Skyline
The train cut through the fog with a low, mournful groan, its iron wheels grinding against the tracks like a man dragging his feet across gravel. Elias sat in the corner of the carriage, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on the condensation beading on the cold glass. He was not a man who traveled often. He was a creature of habit and silence, a being who had long since ceased to speak to those...
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