The Distant Ghost
The departure was not a single event but a slow, bleeding erosion of the self, as if the very fabric of Eleanor Vane’s soul was being unraveled by the invisible, grinding gears of the Great War that hummed in the distance, a low-frequency thrum that she felt in her teeth more than she heard in the air. She stood on the platform of St. Jude’s Station, the cobblestones slick with the rain that...
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