The Wistful Cipher
The station at Greystoke was not a place of arrival, but a threshold of erasure. The fog clung to the iron lattice of the platform like wet wool, muffling the screams of the departing locomotive and turning the world into a grey, suspended breath. Elias Thorne stood by the edge, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the steam coil upward and dissolve into the nothingness above. He was a...
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