The Wistful Mountain
The locomotive exhales a plume of black smoke that hangs in the still, amber air like a ghost refusing to dissipate, wrapping around the iron ribs of the carriage where you sit, your hands folded in your lap, your fingers trembling with a vibration that seems to originate not from the rails but from the marrow of your bones, a deep, rhythmic thrumming that echoes the heartbeat of the engine...
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