The Pale Mist
The train did not so much arrive as it materialized from the thick, sulfurous fog that clung to the tracks of the Ironwood Line like a shroud draped over a corpse, and Elias Thorne stepped onto the platform with the weary, precise grace of a man who had long ago ceased to expect the world to be anything other than a machine that ground its inhabitants into fine, indistinguishable dust, holding...
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