The Faded River
The station at Hargrave was a place of rusted iron and stale coal smoke, where the air tasted of metallic dust and the ghosts of a thousand departures. I stood on the platform, my coat heavy with the damp chill of an industrial autumn, watching the steam curl from the engine like a serpent uncoiling into the grey sky. My father, Thomas Bradshaw, sat in the waiting room, his back to the glass,...
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