The Wistful Ashes
The train pulled away from the platform at Ashworth Station with a groan of rusted iron that sounded like a long, dying exhale, leaving Margaret Holloway standing alone in the gray twilight, her hands clasped so tightly around the straps of her suitcase that the leather creaked under the pressure. She did not look back at the empty carriage, nor at the uniformed guard who stood by the ticket...
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