The Pale Garden
The train did not run on rails of steel but on a ribbon of silence that hummed against the bones of the earth, a vibration so low it was felt only in the marrow, a deep and resonant thrum that had become the rhythm of Elias Thorne’s life since he had first stepped into the service of the Ministry of Internal Order. He sat in the carriage, a compartment of dark mahogany and velvet that smelled...
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