The Pale Door
The train carried Elias Thorne westward, the rhythm of the iron wheels on the tracks providing a metronome for the disintegration of his life. Outside the window, the landscape of the American Midwest blurred into a smear of autumn ochre and grey, a visual echo of the fading memories he carried in his chest. He was a man of forty, with hands that trembled slightly when he held a cup of coffee,...
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