The Golden Harbor
The train slows. The wheels scream. A high, thin whine that drills into your teeth. You sit by the window. The glass is cold. It reflects your face. Pale. Thin. The light from the station platform is amber. Heavy. It stains the air. You hold the book. It is warm. Too warm. The cover is velvet. Black. It breathes. You feel the pulse beneath your palm. One. Two. Three. It matches your own. You...
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