The Wistful Grid
The train hissed out of the station in the grey morning mist, a long, metallic exhale that seemed to shake the very foundations of the platform. Elias Thorne stood by the window, his reflection ghostly against the dark glass, a pale oval of a face framed by the heavy, woolen collar of his coat. He was a man of books and quietude, a scholar of etymology who had spent his life mapping the silent...
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