The Faded Paradox
The train smelled of rust and wet wool. It was a heavy, damp scent, the kind that settles into the pores and refuses to leave. I stood by the window, watching the grey fields of Yorkshire blur into a smear of mud and stone. My left hand hung at my side. It trembled. Not from cold, though the air was biting, but from a fatigue that had nothing to do with sleep. I was a detective, or had been,...
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