The Distant Ghost
The iron breath of the locomotive shudders through the soles of your boots, a rhythmic, metallic pulse that syncs with the heavy, arrhythmic thud of your own heart, as you stand at the edge of the platform in the grey, soot-stained twilight of a November that feels less like a season and more like a slow, creeping suffocation. You are a man of flour and yeast, of hands that know the precise...
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