The Wistful Voyage
You are twelve years old, and the air in the Pneumatic Conveyance Terminal smells of ozone and crushed slate, a scent that has permeated the very fibers of your wool coat and the lining of your ears until you cannot taste anything else but the metallic tang of the future. The station is not a building in the traditional sense, but a vast, hollowed-out lung of riveted iron and tempered glass,...
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