The Pale Dance
The train stopped at a station that had no name on the sign. The sign was blank, a white rectangle of silence against the gray sky. Thomas Whitmore stepped off the platform. His boots were heavy. They had seen too many mud pits and too much blood. He looked at the town. It was small. It was quiet. The houses were low and brown. The air smelled of wet earth and wood smoke. He carried a duffel...
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