The Wistful Ashes
The train does not stop for the dead, it stops for the living who are merely waiting to become dead, and you are sitting in the corner of Car Four, watching the industrial smog roll across the landscape like a bruise that refuses to heal, while your hands, which have not held a human face in three years, tremble around a cup of tea that has gone cold and tastes of iron and ash. You are here...
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