The Wistful Ashes
The train does not slow down. It cuts through the grey fog of the industrial valley with the relentless precision of a scalpel, a steel vein pulsing through the body of the state. You sit in the window seat, your hands folded over the leather satchel in your lap, the leather worn soft by years of carrying the weight of other people’s memories. The air in the carriage is sterile, smelling of...
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