The Wistful Voyage
The train did not run on rails of iron but on the solidified breath of the dead, a white, frosty ribbon that stretched out into the grey, infinite nothingness of the world beyond the glass, and I sat in the corner of the third-class carriage with my hands folded tightly in my lap, feeling the vibration of the engine in my teeth, a low, grinding hum that seemed to be the only sound in the...
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