The Wistful Asylum
The train hissed. It was a low, dying sound. Elias stood at the window. The glass was cold. It bit his forehead. Outside, the fog swallowed the tracks. He held the ticket. It was crumpled. Soft as skin. He had bought it with his last coin. Not for the ride. For the promise. He looked at his hands. They shook. Not from cold. From memory. "Are you coming, Elias?" The voice came from the back of...
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