The Wistful Skyline
The train hissed to a stop in the gray damp of Harrowgate, a sound like a dying breath released from a rusted lung. Elias Thorne stepped onto the platform, his shoulders hunched against the chill that seemed to seep through the wool of his coat. He carried a single leather case, its corners worn soft, the brass clasps darkened by years of handling and neglect. In his pocket, his fingers...
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