The Golden Echoes
The boiler room smelled of sulfur and wet wool. It was a thick, cloying scent that stuck to the back of the throat, a physical weight in the chest. I stood by the pressure gauge, watching the needle tremble. The train was late. That was the problem. We were late, and the men in the dining car were getting restless. They were the kind of men who believed that time was a commodity they had paid...
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