The Faded River
The train to New York carried the smell of wet wool and ozone, a scent that clung to the fabric of Margaret Holloway’s coat like a second skin, as she sat in the upper berth of the sleeper car, watching the city’s skyline dissolve into the grey morning fog that seemed to swallow the world whole. She was a woman who dealt in the precise chemistry of flavor, a senior associate at the Culinary...
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