The Wistful Ashes
The train did not chug so much as it groaned, a low, arterial thrum that vibrated through the soles of Elias’s boots and up into his marrow, a constant reminder of the mechanical beast that carried him toward the capital. He sat in the corner of the third-class carriage, his posture rigid, his hands folded in his lap with the precise, stillness of a man who had long ago decided that movement...
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