The Faded Photograph
The train left without you. You stood on the platform, mud caking the soles of your boots, watching the taillights bleed into the grey mist. You did not run. You did not scream. You just watched. And you knew, with a cold certainty that settled in your gut like swallowed ice, that this was the end of the world you knew. You are Thomas. You are thirty years old, though you look older. You are an...
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