The Wistful Skyline
The train groaned as it pulled into the station, a sound like a bone cracking under too much weight. I stepped onto the platform, my suitcase heavy with books and the heavier silence of the last six weeks. The air smelled of wet iron and stale tobacco, the scent of transit, of places that exist only to be left behind. I was going to see Arthur. We had agreed that this was the final chance. That...
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