The Faded Guest
The train cut through the fog like a blade through wet wool, its whistle a long, shuddering groan that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of my bones. I sat by the window, watching the industrial sprawl of the valley unfold in shades of soot and rust, the smokestacks of the Ashworth Foundry spitting their grey plumes into a sky that had long since forgotten the color of blue. Margaret was waiting...
0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews