The Wistful Asylum
The train station was a cathedral of steam and rust, where the air hung heavy with the scent of burnt coal and the metallic tang of impending departure, and in the shadow of the platform’s arched ceiling, Elias Thorne stood with a suitcase that felt less like luggage and more like a shackle, its leather handle worn smooth by the friction of his desperate, repetitive gripping. He was a man who...
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