The Wistful Silence
The train shudders against the iron bones of the city, a rhythmic, metallic grinding that vibrates through the soles of your boots and up into the marrow of your shins, a sound so persistent and hollow that it begins to feel less like motion and more like the slow, inevitable decay of something that was once solid. You are sitting in the upper berth of a third-class carriage, the wood beneath...
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