WOOD
A clean hit in the dark.
THE PLATFORM HEARD IT FIRST
At the last station, the night knocks back.
The first knock wakes the station.
The second makes it listen.
The third belongs to him.
Nobody remembers his name. Nobody sees beneath the paper. But every night, exactly three wooden knocks roll down the empty platform.
A SMALL NIGHT RECORD
A clean hit in the dark.
A face nobody can keep.
The part that follows you home.
If you hear the third one, you are already part of the story.
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