The Wistful Dinner
The train did not stop at the station, but rather seemed to exhale it, a long, shuddering release of steam and iron that dissolved the evening mist into a grey, suspended haze, and Elias Thorne stood in the vestibule with his hands clasped so tightly behind his back that the knuckles turned the color of old bone, watching the platform recede into the industrial twilight where the smokestacks of...
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