The Distant Metropolis
The train had been running late for six hours, and the cold had long since seeped through the wool of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s greatcoat, settling into the marrow of his bones like a slow, gray tide. He sat in the corner of the second-class carriage, his knees pressed against the seat ahead of him, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere between the window and the rhythmic, grinding shudder of the...
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