The Wistful Silence
The departure was not a dramatic tearing away of hands or a shattering of glass, but rather the slow, inevitable erosion of a shoreline by a tide that had already receded, leaving behind only the damp, dark sediment of what had once been solid ground. Margaret Ashworth stood at the edge of the platform, her fingers interlaced with a tightness that whitened the knuckles, watching the steam rise...
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