The Wistful Silence
The train slows as it enters the valley, the iron wheels shrieking against the track, a sound that feels less like motion and more like a bone breaking. You sit in the corner of the compartment, your coat buttoned to the throat, holding a thermos of black coffee that has gone lukewarm. It is the only thing you have kept from the house, from the life that was dismantled three days ago. The steam...
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