Cold fog had settled over the depot like a burial shroud, and Iris Winnow thought the weather couldn’t have been better. She could hardly see the train through the gloam, but she could taste it in the evening air: metal and smoke and burning coal, all woven together with a trace of petrichor. The wooden platform was slick beneath her shoes, gleaming with rain puddles and piles of decaying leaves.
Noice opening, Miss Ross.
