The Wistful Saga
The rain had stopped, but the air still held the weight of the deluge, a heavy, wet silence that pressed against the windows of the moving train. Elias sat in the corner of the carriage, his knees drawn up to his chest, holding a small, rusted iron key in his palm. He was twelve years old, though he carried himself with the rigid stillness of a man who had already lost something irreplaceable....
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