The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-20 15:05:04 -

You stand at the edge of the platform. The fog is thick, a wet wool blanket draped over the iron sleepers. It smells of coal smoke and wet stone. You are holding the uniform. It is the only thing you have left. The brass buttons are cold against your palms. They are worn smooth, polished by the friction of your own hands over the last three months. The fabric is a heavy wool, dark green, but...

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