The Wistful Saga
You hold the watch. It is cold. Your fingers are numb. The glass face is cracked. A spiderweb fracture runs from the twelve to the six. You stare at it. The hands are frozen at 4:12. You are on the train. The city blurs past the window. Gray slabs of concrete. Steel bridges. Rain streaks the glass. The car is quiet. Only the hum of the engine. You are twelve. You should be happy. You are not....
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