The Distant Wound
The train moved through the gray expanse of the Scottish Highlands with a rhythmic, mechanical patience that felt less like motion and more like a slow drowning in fog. Elias Thorne sat by the window, his knees drawn up to his chest. He was a man of forty, though the lines around his mouth suggested he had lived twice that long. In his lap, resting on his tweed jacket, lay the object. It was a...
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