The Distant Ghost
The train cuts through the mist like a scalpel through wet flesh. You sit in the corner, watching the rain streak the glass. It is not rain, exactly. It is the atmosphere itself, weeping. Your name is Julian. You are a man of middle years, your hair thinning at the temples, your eyes carrying the weight of a decade spent in boardrooms and back alleys. You are traveling to the estate of Lord...
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