The Faded Ruin
The train rattles through the gray spine of the country, a metallic groan that vibrates up through the soles of your shoes and settles into the hollow of your chest, and you sit in the third-class carriage with your petition folded so tightly in your breast pocket that the paper has begun to cut into your skin, a small, sharp pain that anchors you to the reality of your desperation. You are...
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