The Distant Affair
The ink is dry. That is the first thing you notice. The words on the page have settled into the fibers of the paper, a permanent scar on the white skin of the sheet. You sit in the back of the carriage, the wheels churning the rhythm of the night into a dull, bone-deep thud. Outside, the industrial fog presses against the glass like a living thing, gray and heavy, smelling of coal smoke and wet...
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