The Wistful Show
The train did not so much stop at the station of Blackwood Hollow as it seemed to dissolve into the thick, bruised twilight of the industrial valley, a great iron beast exhaling its last, rattling breath before the stillness swallowed it whole. Margaret Holloway stood in the vestibule, her hand resting on the cold, vibrating metal, watching the mist curl around the rusted tracks like the...
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