The Wistful Show
The rain in this city does not fall so much as it remembers, a grey, persistent ghost that clings to the wool of your coat and seeps into the marrow of your bones, turning the cobblestones into mirrors for the fractured reflections of a world that refuses to let you go, and you stand at the edge of the platform, your breath misting in the cold air, watching the train that has just carried away...
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