The Wistful Silence
The train smelled of stale coffee and damp wool, a scent that had become so intrinsic to Arthur’s life over the last decade that he could no longer distinguish it from the smell of his own thoughts. He sat by the window, watching the suburban sprawl blur into a gray smear of concrete and rusted iron, his mind churning with the same frantic, technical precision he applied to his work at the...
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