The Distant Journey
The rain at King’s Cross was not falling so much as it was being pressed against the glass by the relentless, indifferent machinery of the city, a grey smear that blurred the departure board into a wall of meaningless red numbers. Elias Thorne stood with his back to the crowd, his fingers white-knuckled around the spine of a leather-bound ledger, the cover worn soft as skin from decades of...
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