The Pale Fracture
The train from Zurich to Vienna was a slow, rattling beast of steel and rust, and I clung to the window with the desperate, white-knuckled grip of a man trying to hold back a tide that was already inside the house. I was not a man who traveled often; I was a man who had been waiting for thirty years in a small, damp cellar in London, counting the cracks in the ceiling, waiting for the water to...
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