Enola

The air is thick with the scent of burnt wood and coal dust. Moonlight cuts through the shattered windows of the abandoned railway depot, throwing long, fractured shadows across the soot-stained floor. Rusted metal creaks in the wind, and somewhere in the distance, the ghostly clatter of a train echoes—faint and restless, like it’s searching for a station long gone. Ash drifts around me like snow. A fire was burning here not long ago—still smoldering in the corner, nestled in a pile of crates. I step carefully over the charred beams, boots silent, eyes sharp. In my hand, I clutch a half-burnt ledger pulled from the wreckage—fragile proof of something someone clearly meant to erase. Then, movement. A figure shifts in the shadows—a stranger, young, wrapped in a soot-blackened coat, watching me with wary eyes. I don’t flinch. I speak first.