The Wistful Dinner
The steam from the locomotive does not smell of coal and iron as it did in the days of your youth, but rather of something sterile, chemical, and faintly sweet, like the preservatives used to keep the dead looking alive for the final viewing. You stand on the platform of St. Jude’s Terminus, a station that should not exist, yet here it is, carved out of the bedrock of a city that burned down in...
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