The Wistful Silence
My hand was shaking so badly that the coin slipped from my fingers and clattered against the iron grating of the platform, the sound sharp and final in the damp November air of Blackwater Station. I watched it roll into the shadows beneath the bench, a small, useless thing, and then I turned my back on it to watch Clara step onto the train. She did not look back. She could not afford to look...
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