The Pale Letter
The train stopped. Not with a hiss. Not with a groan. It stopped. Dead. Steam curled. Thin. White. I stepped onto the platform. Cold. Bit my nose. The engine died. The lights dimmed. I am a soldier. Or I was. Now I am a watcher. A keeper of the line. The line is the border. The border is the world. My name is Elias. I do not care for it. It is just a sound. A label. The badge is heavier. Iron....
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