The Wistful Crossroads
The steam from the kettle did not merely rise; it curled into the high, vaulted ceiling of the boiler room like a living thing seeking an exit, a pale, ephemeral serpent that wove through the shadows of the coal dust and the rusted iron pipes that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic thrumming akin to the heartbeat of a dying giant, while Thomas stood before the great gauge, his hands trembling not...
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