The Wistful Voyage
The train cut through the grey afternoon, a steel vein pulsing beneath the skin of the landscape, carrying us toward the Institute for Temporal Calibration where the air always tasted of ozone and stale tea. I sat with my hands resting on my lap, fingers interlaced, the knuckles white not from cold but from the sheer, grinding effort of holding myself together. The institution, a sprawling...
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