The Wistful Voyage
The train from London to the coast was late, a fact that seemed to hang in the air like a held breath, suspending us in a grey, motionless limbo that felt less like a delay and more like a punishment. I sat by the window, watching the blurred streaks of industrial outskirts pass by, the glass reflecting my own face back at me with a cold, impartial clarity. Eleanor sat across from me, her...
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