The Distant Affair
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it hung, a gray, static curtain that smelled of wet slate and stale tobacco. Elias Thorne stood on the platform, his coat buttons straining against a chest that felt too large for his frame, watching the 8:15 express dissolve into the mist. He was leaving. He was always leaving. But this time, the departure was not a flight from consequence, but a...
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