The Pale Altar
The train hissed into the station at Harrowgate with a sound like a dying animal, exhaling a plume of white steam that curled around the platform pillars and dissolved into the damp, gray air of the morning. I stepped onto the wet gravel, my boots sinking slightly into the mud, and felt the familiar, heavy weight of my leather satchel against my hip. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, lay the...
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