The Pale Path
The train did not stop. It hummed, a low, vibrating thrum that lived in the teeth and the marrow, a sound that had become the only clock Margaret knew. She sat in the last car, her uniform pressed flat against her ribs, the fabric stiff with the residue of a week’s unwashed sweat and the metallic tang of fear. Beside her, in the narrow aisle, stood Thomas. He was not a passenger. He was a...
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