The Wistful Throne
The train did not so much arrive as it seemed to exhale itself into the station, a long, groaning sigh of iron and steam that smelled of coal dust and wet wool. Margaret stood on the platform, her grip white-knuckled around the handle of a suitcase that was far too heavy for a woman of her slight frame, watching the doors slide open to reveal a world that looked exactly like the one she had...
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