The Distant Wound
The train cuts through the grey heart of the Midlands like a blade through fog. You sit in the corner of the third-class carriage, your coat buttoned to the throat, your fingers white-knuckled around the brass handle. The air is stale, thick with the smell of damp wool and rusted iron. Outside, the landscape is a smear of charcoal and slate, the fields dead and flat under a sky that has...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews