The Golden Circuit
The letter was damp. Not wet, merely saturated with the fog that clung to the rail yards of Bristol. Elias held it in his left hand, his right gripping the brass railing of the observation deck. The engine chugged below him. A low, rhythmic thrum that vibrated in his teeth. He was a machine. A precise, clockwork thing. Or so the engineers said. So did the men in the grey coats. They looked at...
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