The Golden Master
The train cuts through the gray fog of the North Sea coast, a long, iron ribcage shuddering against the rhythmic thud of the tracks. You sit in the corner of the second-class car, your posture rigid, your hands resting on your knees with a stillness that borders on paralysis. The uniform is the first thing you notice, or perhaps the last thing you feel, as the wool itches against your skin, a...
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