The Golden Crossing
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, grey mist that clung to the wool of your coat and dampened the hairs on your forearms. You stood on the platform at the edge of the world, where the tracks ended in a tangle of rusted iron and wild grass. The stationmaster, a man named Elias whose face was a map of old scars, watched you with eyes that had seen too many departures and...
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