The Wistful Dinner
The train hissed into the station of Oakhaven, a low, mournful exhalation that seemed to shake the very foundations of the platform, and you stood there, clutching the leather-bound ledger to your chest as if it were a child you were determined to protect from the biting wind. The air smelled of coal smoke and wet wool, a heavy, industrial tang that had settled into the pores of your skin...
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