The Distant Promise
Baptiste Dumas’s boots struck the wet iron of the platform, a sharp, hollow rhythm that cut through the damp air of the Gare du Nord. He clutched the leather-bound ledger against his chest, the spine cracked from years of handling, the pages swollen with the humidity of the Irish coast. The train to Paris was late, a fact that the conductor announced with the bored indifference of a man who had...
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