The Wistful Saga
The train smells of rust and wet wool. You are twelve. Your shoes are too big. They flap against the floorboards. The rhythm is a heartbeat. Or a drill. You sit by the window. The glass is fogged. You trace a circle. It disappears. The air is thick. It presses against your lungs. You breathe in. You breathe out. The engine coughs. The wheels scream. This is the journey. This is the beginning....
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