The Faded Root
The steam from the night train at King’s Cross smells of coal dust and impending betrayal, a thick, gray fog that clings to your wool coat and settles into the pores of your skin, and you stand at the edge of the platform, your hand gripping the brass badge of Arthur, your best friend, who is currently stepping onto the iron grating of the carriage. The badge is warm, too warm, and where your...
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