The Pale Fracture
The train hissed into the station of Kettering with a sound like a dying breath, releasing a cloud of steam that hung in the cold November air, thick and white and indifferent to the faces of the passengers who stood upon the platform, watching it dissipate into the grey, industrial haze that seemed to cling to the very bricks of the city. Elias Thorne stood apart from the crowd, his coat...
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