The Wistful Saga
The train moves. It is a slow, grinding motion. The wheels clatter against the iron bones of the earth. You are sitting in the corner of the carriage. The glass is cold. It is so cold that your fingers leave white ghosts on the pane. Outside, the landscape blurs. Fields of gray stubble. Smokestacks belching black ribbons into a sky the color of wet slate. This is the industrial heartland. The...
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