The Wistful Show
The fog rolled in thick. It tasted of rust. And coal. Captain Silas Vane stood on the platform. His boots clicked. Hard. On the wet gravel. He waited. No one came. Not yet. He checked his watch. A brass pocket watch. Tarnished. The face was cracked. A spiderweb fracture ran across the twelve. Time was broken here. Time was a lie. He pulled out his notebook. Leather bound. Stained with ink. And...
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