The Pale Shadows
The train does not stop at the station, but rather seems to bleed through it, a long, metallic exhalation of steam and diesel that coats the platform in a fine, greasy mist, and you stand there, your suitcase feeling less like luggage and more like a lead weight anchored to your ankle, watching the taillights of the carriage fade into the grey, indifferent horizon of the English countryside, a...
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