The Wistful Voyage
Thorne. The name arrived from the back of the carriage, a sharp, clipped syllable that cut through the rhythmic clatter of the wheels and the low, droning hum of the heating vents. You turned, your spine stiffening against the velvet seat, and saw the conductor’s gaze fixed on you with the bored intensity of a man inspecting a damaged crate. He was checking your ticket, a simple act of...
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