The Wistful Voyage
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a thick, grey veil that smelled of wet asphalt and the metallic tang of old blood, and Thomas Whitmore stood at the edge of the platform, his uniform soaked through to the skin, feeling the cold seep into his bones like a slow, inevitable poison that promised nothing but the finality of his own exhaustion. He was a man who had spent the...
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