The Distant Ghost
The rain hits the corrugated iron roof like a handful of gravel. You count the strikes. One. Two. Three. You do not look up. You are alone in the guard booth, a box of glass and rusted steel perched at the edge of the city’s throat. The year is 1912, or maybe 1914. Time here is not a line. It is a pool. You are the keeper. Your uniform is dark, pressed tight against your ribs, smelling of damp...
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