The Faded Photograph
The train rattled through the dark, a skeletal thing of iron and steam, carrying me toward the edge of the map where the fog never quite lifted. I sat with my back against the cold window, the glass fogged by my breath, watching the industrial landscape blur into a smear of soot and grey. In my lap, I held the object. It was not a weapon, not in the way the old stories described. It was a brass...
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