The Golden Oath
The rain on the glass of the locomotive headlight was not water but a living thing, a cold, slick membrane that pressed against the iron face of the engine as it shuddered down the tracks toward the valley of St. Jude. You were the engine, or at least you felt the weight of the engine in your bones, a deep, resonant thrum that started in your molars and settled into the hollows of your chest...
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