...a subway station, dark except for stray shafts of light from our torches. Roots hang down from what remains of the ceiling, twisting down toward the ground as if groping for a hand hold in the darkness. You can see dirt and rubble scattered over a floor of broken tiles and litter. Your torch picks out a woman's handbag, rotting. An almost overpowering smell of earth, rich and loamy, fills... [click here for more] |
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