The Faded Guest
The train smelled of wet wool and coal smoke, a heavy, choking perfume that seemed to settle into the marrow of Tom’s bones. He sat in the corner of the carriage, his knees drawn up to his chest, clutching a tin box so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Outside, the Yorkshire moors blurred into a gray smear, the rain striking the glass in sheets that hissed and died. Inside, the air was...
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