The Pale Altar
The station at the end of the line is a concrete slab poured into the mud of the English Midlands, a brutalist box that holds the silence of a world that has moved on without you. You are standing there, your breath pluming in the cold air that seeps through the cracked glass, watching the last train of the day pull away into the grey nothingness. It is not a dramatic departure, just the slow,...
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