The Distant Wound
The train hissed against the iron tracks, a long, dying exhalation that shook the floorboards of the station. Elias Thorne stood by the window, his reflection ghostly and thin. Behind him, the platform was empty. No one had come to say goodbye. He had expected no one. In the regiment, departure was a mechanical function, not a human one. He adjusted the collar of his tunic. The fabric was...
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