The Wistful Atlas
The taste of the apple is gone. You stand on the platform of the train, the wind tearing at the hem of your coat, and you look at the woman in the grey dress who is walking away from you. She does not look back. You know, with the cold certainty of a bone set in the wrong place, that you will not see her again. You are twelve years old. Your name is Julian, though you feel less like a boy and...
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