The Wistful Saga
The train hissed into the station, a long, shuddering exhale of steam that smelled of coal and old rain. Elias stood at the platform’s edge, his hand resting on the cold iron railing. He was sixty-two, though the mirror in his office had begun to show him a man of eighty. His uniform, pressed to a razor’s edge, felt less like fabric and more like a second skin, one that was slowly tightening...
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