The Wistful Crossroads
The rain did not fall so much as it invaded, a heavy, suffocating curtain of grey that turned the world outside our window into a smear of mud and rust. We were alone in the station, the last two souls left in the entire district, huddled in the back of the decommissioned railcar that had been our home for three weeks. The air inside was thick with the smell of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the...
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