The Pale Fracture
The train does not stop at the station, for there is no station left, only a hollowed-out ribcage of iron and rusted wood that stands against the gray sky like a broken bone, and you are standing on the platform, your hands pressed flat against the freezing metal of the carriage door, feeling the cold seep through the leather of your gloves, a cold that is not merely of the air but of the...
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