The Distant Journey
The rain hits the pavement in a steady, gray sheet. You stand at the edge of the platform. Your hands are wet. Your father’s hands are dry. He holds his coat tight against his chest. He does not look at you. He looks at the tracks. The train is not here. The air smells of ozone and old iron. "Are you ready?" he asks. His voice is low. It is the voice of a man who has carried a heavy weight for...
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