The Wistful Voyage
The rain hits the tin roof. It sounds like static. Like the end of a wire. You are standing at the edge of the platform. The air is cold. It bites your skin. You wear the coat. It is wool. It smells of damp wool and old iron. The train is coming. You can hear the wheels. A low groan. A heavy breath. The city rises around you. Brick and soot. Smoke from the chimneys. It hangs low. It chokes the...
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