The Wistful Ashes
The ticket is for the four o'clock express. I held the paper up to the light, checking the perforations, the ink. It was a heavy thing, this ticket. Heavier than the coin in my pocket. Heavier than the silence in the carriage. I was thirty-two years old, and I had not left the provincial town of Oakhaven in five years. Five years of ink-stained fingers and the smell of damp wool in the scribe’s...
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