The Distant Cartograph
The train had been running late for six hours, a fact that seemed to weigh on the metal bones of the carriage like a physical fog, pressing against the glass until the world outside the window blurred into a smear of grey iron and wet, industrial soot, and inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale tobacco, damp wool, and the metallic tang of fear that hung over the small group of men...
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