The Faded Photograph
The locomotive groans against the steel, a rhythmic, metallic shudder that travels up through the soles of your boots and settles, heavy and cold, in the marrow of your bones. You are not a passenger. You are a component of the machine, a rusting gear in the vast, indifferent engine of the Royal Signals Corps, bound for the northern frontier where the fog does not lift and the men do not come...
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