The Distant Joke
The train whistled. It was a long, thin sound. It cut the air. Then it faded. Margaret stood on the platform. She held her suitcase. It was small. It was leather. It had seen better days. The stitching was loose. The clasp was bent. She had carried it since she was a girl. It held her life. Or at least, the parts of it that fit in a box. She looked at the train. The doors were closing. She did...
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