The Wistful Saga
The train rattled into the station at Harrowgate, its wheels shrieking against the iron rails in a sound that seemed to vibrate through the soles of Arthur Vane’s boots and up into his spine. He stepped onto the platform, the November air biting at his face, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of coal smoke and the damp rot of the river mud that lined the tracks. He was forty years old, a man...
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