The Wistful Witness
The train hisses into the station of New Carthage, a long, metallic groan that seems to vibrate in the marrow of your bones. You step onto the platform, your leather satchel heavy against your hip, and the air hits you with the specific, acrid weight of industry. It is not the clean, crisp air of the countryside you left behind, but a thick, grey soup of coal dust and chemical runoff, settling...
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