The Wistful Ashes
The train did not merely travel; it crawled through the grey, rain-slicked arteries of the city, a metallic beast bound by the rigid, unyielding laws of a time that had long since ceased to feel like a gift and had instead calcified into a prison, a state of perpetual twilight where the sky above the industrial spires was the color of old bruises and the air tasted of copper and wet ash, and...
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