The Wistful Mountain
The soot was not merely dirt, but a heavy, sentient powder that clung to the pores of my skin and the very lining of my lungs, a fine, gray silt that turned the vibrant green of the valley into a bruised, monochromatic haze, and as the locomotive groaned and shuddered over the iron tracks, I felt the vibration in my teeth, a rhythmic pounding that seemed to echo the frantic, terrified beating...
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