The Wistful Throne
The rain on the platform at Central Station does not fall; it hangs, a suspended gray curtain that smells of ozone and wet iron. You are Elias, twelve years old, and your fingers are white-knuckled around a paper ticket that feels less like paper and more like a thin slice of bone. You are here because Julian, your brother, has been gone for three days, and the police have stopped asking...
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