The Pale Path
The fog tasted of iron. Miles held his breath. The air was thick. Wet. It clung to his skin. He stood on the platform. The train had left. Or had it? The tracks vanished into the gray. No smoke. No steam. Just silence. A heavy, industrial silence. Miles looked at his hands. They were shaking. Not from cold. From fear. He had come for the light. That was the lie. He had come for his father....
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