The Golden Crossing
The train that carries us through the valley does not run on coal or steam, but on a slow, thickening syrup of amber that boils in the undercarriage with a sound like a low, continuous moan, a hum that vibrates in the marrow of my bones and settles into the teeth, and as we glide past the grey, soot-stained factories of the lowlands, where the air is heavy with the scent of sulfur and wet ash,...
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