The Distant Metropolis
The train hissed, a long, metallic exhalation that seemed to strip the last of the warmth from the platform at Oakhaven, leaving only the damp chill of the industrial age to settle in the bones. Arthur Penhaligon stood by the yellow line, his hand resting on the heavy wool coat draped over his shoulder, watching the steam curl around the locomotive’s iron flanks like a ghost trying to hold onto...
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