The Pale Garden
The train hissed. It screamed against the iron teeth of the track. The air was thick. It tasted of coal and rot. Willa sat by the window. Her hands were pale. They trembled. Outside, the landscape was a blur of grey. Trees. Dead trees. They clawed at the glass. She held a locket. It was cold. It was heavy. Inside, a picture. Her mother. Young. Laughing. The face was a ghost. The car was empty....
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