The Pale Fracture
The train does not stop. It moves with a rhythmic, grinding persistence, a mechanical heartbeat that thuds against the steel ribs of the carriage, vibrating up through the soles of your boots and into the marrow of your shins. You sit in the corner of the window seat, your back pressed flat against the cold, curved glass. Outside, the landscape is a smear of grey and white, a blurred smear of...
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