The Distant Nightmare
The train to the capital was a long, groaning metal beast that smelled of stale coffee and damp wool, and I sat pressed against the window, watching the gray countryside blur into a smear of mud and dead leaves. In my lap lay a velvet box, small enough to fit inside a fist, heavy with the weight of what it contained. I had been carrying it for three days, since the morning my father had died in...
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