The Wistful Ashes
The train does not stop so much as it exhales into the gray throat of the station, a long, rattling sigh that tastes of iron and wet wool, and you step down onto the platform with the heavy, deliberate pace of someone who has already decided to remain, though you have not yet told the man waiting for you that you are not coming home to the warm hearth but to the cold, high-ceilinged rooms of...
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