The Distant Whispers
The train did not stop at the station, it merely exhaled into the fog, a long, shuddering sigh of steam and coal smoke that smelled of wet iron and old memories, and I stood on the platform, my fingers white-knuckled around the handle of my leather satchel, watching the headlights pierce the grey curtain of the morning until they were nothing but a fading, indifferent star in the void, for I...
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