The Wistful Witness
The train hissed against the rails like a serpent waking from a long, cold sleep, spewing a plume of white steam that hung in the air, thick and heavy, obscuring the gray skyline of Harrowgate where the ironworks sat like a dormant beast breathing out its last industrial breath. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood in the vestibule, gripping the brass railing with a hand that had forgotten how to...
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