The Wistful Skyline
The train from Bristol to the industrial heart of the north was a grinding, metallic beast that smelled of stale tobacco and wet wool, and as I pressed my forehead against the cold, vibrating glass of the window, watching the grey fields blur into a smear of mud and mist, I felt the weight of the leather-bound journal in my coat pocket, a heavy, rectangular stone that seemed to anchor me to the...
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