The Wistful Skyline
The train pulls away with a shudder that you feel in the marrow of your teeth, leaving you standing on the gravel path that borders the old estate, the air suddenly thin and cold against your skin as the locomotive’s exhaust hangs in the grey afternoon light like a ghost that refuses to dissipate. You watch the receding silhouette of the carriage shrink against the backdrop of the bare winter...
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