The Wistful Voyage
You are leaving. The train waits. It does not care about your age. It does not care about the dust on your boots. You stand on the platform. Your mother stands beside you. She holds your hand. Her grip is tight. Too tight. She does not speak. She never speaks much. She just looks at the tracks. The tracks run straight into the gray. The gray is thick. It sits on the air. It sits on the faces of...
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