The Faded River
The train did not stop at the station of St. Jude’s, for St. Jude’s was not a place on the map but a state of being that Thomas Ashworth had carried in his chest for three days, a heavy, cold stone that sat beneath his ribs and pulsed with a rhythm distinct from his own heartbeat, a rhythm that matched the clacking of the wheels on the iron rails as they cut through the grey, fog-choked...
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