The Wistful Mirror
The train did not so much arrive at the station as it exhaled into the fog, a long, shuddering sigh of steam and iron that seemed to swallow the gray morning whole. I stepped off onto the platform with the weary, deliberate grace of a man who has walked far too long to understand why he is still moving, my hand gripping the strap of my leather bag as if it were the last tether to a life I had...
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