The Pale Garden
Thorne, you’re late. The shout came from the platform edge, sharp and thin, cutting through the steam that poured from the locomotive’s undercarriage like a living thing. Elias Thorne tightened his grip on the leather satchel, his knuckles white against the dark, oiled hide. He was forty years old, but the black dust of the coal mines had settled into the creases of his face so deeply that he...
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