The Faded Chronicle
The train hissed into the station at Ashworth, a low, mournful exhale that seemed to pull the steam from the air, and I stepped down onto the platform with the heavy, metallic taste of defeat already coating my tongue. It was November, 1912, and the Midlands lay wrapped in a grey, industrial haze that clung to the wool of my overcoat like a second skin. I was thirty-four years old, a constable...
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