The Golden Downtown
The brass key was cold in my palm, a small, heavy thing that smelled of oil and old iron. I held it up to the flickering gaslight of the night train, turning it over and over, watching the tarnish catch the glow until I felt the metal bite into my thumb. Outside, the dark pressed against the glass, a solid wall of blackness that moved only when the wheels began their rhythmic clatter, the sound...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews