The Wistful Silence
The train does not stop for the dead, and it does not stop for the living who have ceased to be alive in any meaningful sense. You step off the carriage at a station that seems to exist only in the peripheral vision of the map, a place where the tracks dissolve into a fog that tastes of iron and old rain. You are carrying a case. It is not heavy, not in the way that stone is heavy, but it is...
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