The Distant Legend
The jar was slick under Elias’s palm, warm as a living thing, and he wiped the condensation onto his trousers before the train could jolt him off his feet. He was forty years old, a man whose face had been carved by wind and duty, and he did not look back at the window where the last of the valley’s greenery blurred into gray smudge. Thomas was in the hospital bed in the room below, his...
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