The Faded Root
The steam rises in spirals that do not obey the laws of thermodynamics, curling into shapes that resemble letters you once wrote but have since forgotten. You stand on the platform of the 4:15 from London King’s Cross, though there is no King’s Cross, only a stretch of iron and rust suspended in a void of pale, industrial fog. The air tastes of copper and old paper. You are holding a box. It is...
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