The Faded Quadrant
The snow falls in sheets. Gray. Thick. It blots out the world. You are standing on the platform. The train is here. It is late. The steam hisses. It smells of coal. It smells of wet wool. You grip your bag. Your hands shake. Not from cold. From fear. You are a man of the law. A constable. You wear the gray coat. You wear the cap. The wool is itchy. It chafes your neck. You have worn it for ten...
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