The Distant Whispers
The train to London was a long, rattling coffin of steel and stale air, carrying Margaret through the grey afternoon into the heart of a city that had forgotten how to whisper. She sat by the window, her hands folded in her lap, watching the suburbs dissolve into the dense, breathing mass of the metropolis. The windowpane was cold against her forehead, a thin barrier between the warmth of the...
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