The Pale Meridian
The train hissed, a long, metallic exhalation that seemed to strip the warmth from the carriage walls. I pressed my back against the seat, the leather cracked and cold, and watched the Leeds skyline shrink into a grey smear. In my lap sat a tin, small and dented, holding the last of my mother’s preserved quinces. The glass was cloudy with age, the fruit inside a translucent amber, suspended in...
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