The Wistful Voyage
The train rattled through the dark, a metal ribcage groaning against the weight of the night, and you sat in the corner of the second-class car with your hands folded tight in your lap, holding the hem of your coat as if it were the only thing keeping your soul tethered to your body. The air smelled of stale coal smoke, damp wool, and the faint, sweet rot of overripe apples from a crate in the...
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