The Distant Whispers
The train hissed into the platform of Chicago Union Station, a long metallic sigh that seemed to drain the air from the room. Elias stepped off, his boots heavy on the wet concrete. He was fifty years old, though his hair was white and his hands trembled with a palsy that had nothing to do with the cold. He carried no bags. He carried only the memory of a house in Vermont that was slowly being...
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