The Pale Path
The ledger showed forty-two years of service, a number Elias Thorne had counted every morning for the last decade. He weighed the entry in his mind, a solid, heavy thing, against the thinning air of the station. The mist was thick today, pressing against the single-pane windows like a damp cloth. It smelled of wet wool and old paper, a scent that had seeped into the linoleum floor and the...
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