The Wistful Skyline
The train moved through the grey heart of the valley with a slow, rhythmic grinding, a sound that seemed to come from the earth itself rather than the iron wheels, and Edward Ashworth sat rigid in the corner of the compartment, his hands clasped tightly around the small, worn leather case that rested upon his knees. The air in the car was stale, thick with the scent of damp wool and old...
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