The Wistful Ashes
The train cuts through the grey mist of the English countryside, a sleek, humming vessel that feels less like a machine and more like a living thing with a cold, metallic heart. You are sitting in the observation car at the very back, the glass cool against your forehead, watching the fields blur into a smear of wet brown and dormant green. It is late autumn, the kind of heavy, damp season...
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