The Wistful Skyline
The fog did not lift so much as it retreated, a slow, reluctant withdrawal of grey wool from the windows of the train, revealing a landscape that was both familiar and fundamentally alien, a stretch of moorland that seemed to breathe with a cold, silent malice, and I sat there, clutching the leather satchel that contained the only thing in my life that had any weight, any texture, any reason...
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