The Wistful Dinner
The train cut through the mist like a steel needle threading a dark cloth, its whistle a high, keening shriek that vibrated in the marrow of Silas’s bones. He sat in the corner of the third-class carriage, his uniform crisp but his soul frayed, watching the industrial sprawl of New London blur past the window. Outside, the smokestacks of the ironworks belched thick, oily clouds into a sky that...
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