The Faded Apartment
The train cut through the grey throat of the Pennine hills with a grinding, rhythmic violence that vibrated in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones, a constant, low-frequency hum that seemed to vibrate the very air into a thick, suffocating syrup. He sat in the corner of the third-class carriage, his back rigid against the scratched wooden seat, his hands resting on the lap of his worn tweed...
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