The Wistful Atlas
The train moves with a rhythmic, mechanical indifference that you have learned to mistake for peace, its steel bones humming a low-frequency drone that vibrates in the marrow of your shinbones and settles behind your eyes like a persistent, gray fog. You are seated in the window seat of a carriage that smells of damp wool and stale coffee, the glass pane before you acting as a silent, cold...
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