At the western end of Battambang, the old train station clock reads barely past eight. It has been that way for years – maybe decades, even – because, having lived out its purpose long ago, it stopped ticking. But the truth is, it’s already one in the afternoon, and the clock feels like it has stopped less because of technical malfunction than a result of a magical spell that froze time indefinitely. With skies overcast and streets eerily quiet – except for the occasional cars, motorbikes, bicycles and pedestrians – the whole place feels like a scene from a post-apocalyptic film. A couple of Western tourists ride their bikes before disappearing in a narrow alley. In another narrow street, virtually all houses and stores have their doors shut, except for one in which the doorway frames
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