The Wistful Skyline
The steam from the locomotive hung in the cold air of the platform, a thick, grey curtain that smelled of coal dust and wet wool, and Elias Thorne stood beneath it, his fingers white-knuckled around the spine of a leather journal that had seen better days. The train was already moving, the wheels grinding against the iron rails with a rhythmic, metallic shriek that vibrated through the soles of...
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