The Wistful Voyage
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the city into a watercolor wash of slate and iron, and as Elias Vane stood on the platform of the Central Terminus, watching the last of the morning commuters disperse into the mist, he felt the weight of the iron key in his pocket pressing against his thigh like a second heart, beating with a cold,...
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