The Wistful Voyage
The locomotive screamed against the iron track, a sound that was less a mechanical function and more a violent exhalation of steam and soot, tearing through the gray morning fog that clung to the Appalachian foothills like a shroud. I sat in the third-class car, my knees drawn up to my chest, clutching a leather-bound satchel that contained the entirety of my remaining worth: three monographs...
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