The Distant Summer
Your hand is steady as you uncork the vial, the glass cool against your palm, the cork popping with a dry, final sound that echoes in the small, cramped cabin. You are thirty years old, Sergeant Elias Thorne, and you have been riding the northbound express for six hours, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the iron tracks vibrating up through the wooden seat and into your bones. The vial...
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