The Distant Legend
The rain in Caledonia did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the soot that clung to every brick and cobblestone into a black, viscous tar. Elias Thorne stood on the platform of the Central Terminus, his coat buttoned to the chin, watching the last of the commuters file toward the eastbound express. He was a man of sixty, though his hands, stained permanently with...
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