The Golden Suspect
The train rattled into the station at dusk, the iron wheels grinding against the rusted rails with a sound like the teeth of the dead shifting in their graves. I stepped onto the platform, my boots heavy with the mud of the countryside, and the air hit me, thick with the scent of ozone, wet concrete, and the faint, sweet rot of autumn leaves. It was the city, but it did not look like the city I...
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