The Golden Quest
The train station was a cathedral of iron and steam, its arches sweating condensation that smelled of rust and wet wool. I stood on the platform, holding my leather satchel against my hip, watching the taillights of the 8:15 to Bristol fade into the grey fog. Margaret was not there. She was always late, or she was always already gone, depending on which lie I chose to believe that morning. But...
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