The Wistful Voyage
You stand at the edge of the platform. The fog is thick. It tastes of iron and old rain. Your hands are bound. Not with rope. With duty. The leather of your cuffs chafes against the skin of your wrists. You feel the pulse in your left hand. It is a drum. It is a warning. The train is coming. You can hear it before you see it. A low moan. A grinding of metal on stone. The station is empty. Only...
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