The Golden Song
The train did not arrive so much as it erupted from the fog, a belching beast of iron and soot that tore the morning apart with a shriek of steam and grinding gears, leaving in its wake a heavy, suffocating scent of coal dust and wet wool that settled into the pores of Thomas Whitmore’s skin like a second, inescapable skin. He stood on the platform at Blackwood Junction, his coat buttoned to...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 5 Views 0 Anteprima