The Pale Tower
The train does not stop at the station where the air smells of wet iron and old regrets, but it slows, a heavy, deliberate exhalation that presses against the window glass, and you are there, in the third row from the back, clutching the leather-bound ledger so tightly that the white knuckles ache in a rhythm that mimics the thrumming of the rails beneath your boots. You are not merely...
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