The Golden Crossing
The fog did not roll in; it seeped, a pale, viscous liquid that found the cracks in the rusted vents of the Kestrel Pass station and poured into the room like a slow tide. Elias Thorne, forty-five years old and stiff with the arthritis of a man who had spent two decades hunching over border markers, watched the condensation form on the inside of the glass, his breath fogging the air in short,...
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