The Faded Root
The train to Ashworth was a rattling tin box that smelled of damp wool and stale coffee, a vessel that seemed less like transportation and more like a waiting room for the end of the world. I sat by the window, watching the gray plains of the Midwest scroll past in a blur of brown and white, my hands resting on my lap. They were trembling. Not from the cold, though the air conditioning in the...
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