The Wistful Atlas
The train pulled out of the station with a sound like a long, slow exhale, the iron wheels grinding against the tracks in a rhythm that matched the beating of a heart growing too old for its own chambers. Elias Thorne stood on the platform, his hand resting on the cold steel railing, watching the receding blue of his brother’s coat shrink until it was indistinguishable from the smog and the...
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