The Distant Metropolis
The train arrived at Harrow’s End not with a screech of brakes, but with a long, shuddering exhale of steam that misted the platform in a cold, grey veil. You stepped down onto the iron grating, your leather satchel heavy against your hip, containing the three years of your life that had been distilled into ink and paper. The air here tasted of coal dust and wet stone, a sharp contrast to the...
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