The Distant Whispers
The train smelled of damp wool and old iron, a scent that clung to Marcus Thorne’s coat as he pressed his forehead against the cold glass. Outside, the English countryside blurred into a smear of grey and green, the landscape dissolving into the fog that had settled over the valleys since dawn. He was a man who had spent thirty years in the service of an institution that did not breathe, a...
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