The Golden Greenhouse
The train from Leeds to York was a creature of iron and steam, groaning against the rails as it cut through the gray November drizzle. Elias Thorne sat by the window, his reflection ghosted over the passing fields, a translucent figure trapped in glass. He was a man composed of sharp angles and quiet tenses, his coat buttoned to the chin, his hands resting on his knees as if he were waiting for...
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