The Wistful Incense
The train groaned as it pulled into the station at dawn, a sound like a dying beast, and you stepped onto the platform with your coat buttoned to the chin, the cold of the industrial city biting at your nose and cheeks. You are here, you tell yourself, because the old world is gone, and this new one, this city of iron and steam and soot, is the only place left where a man can pretend to be...
0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews