The Wistful Petal
The bus does not stop when you ask it to. It never does, not really, not in the way you think it should, sliding into the gravel shoulder with a polite hiss of brakes that says *here, take what is yours, take your peace, take your sanity*. Instead, it lurches, a great beast of rusted iron and diesel fumes, and you are thrown against the window, your cheek pressed into the cold glass, watching...
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