The Faded Bouquet
The station master, a man named Elias Vane who wore his authority like a second skin that had long since grown into the flesh, sat alone in the observation car of the midnight express, the window before him a pane of cold, indifferent glass that reflected not his face but the endless, churning void of the industrial night outside, a void that seemed to breathe in and out with a rhythm that was...
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