The Wistful Saga
The train from Chicago to Cleveland hummed with a low, tectonic vibration that Marcus Thorne felt in his molars, a frequency that seemed to resonate with the hollow spaces inside his chest. He sat in the corner of the observation car, his knees pressed against the glass, watching the flat, gray expanse of the American Midwest scroll past in a blur of brown fields and skeletal trees. The winter...
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