The Wistful Grid
The carriage rattled over the cobblestones of the old town, a wooden beast shaking its head in protest against the iron tracks it had never been meant to ride, while Thomas sat in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, watching the shadows lengthen across the floorboards like spilled ink. It was a journey into the belly of the earth, or so it seemed, for the station was not merely a stop...
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