The Wistful Atlas
The train groaned as it pulled out of the station, a metallic shriek that seemed to tear at the fabric of the morning air, and I watched the platform shrink into a gray smear of brick and iron. It was a journey of three days, or so the timetable promised, but the distance between the industrial sprawl of the city and the quiet, wooded valleys of the north felt less like a measure of miles and...
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