The Distant Promise
The bus smells of wet wool and stale coffee, a thick, cloying scent that clings to the back of your throat. You sit near the window, watching the grey rain streak the glass, blurring the city into a watercolor of steel and neon. Your hands are folded in your lap, resting on a small, heavy object wrapped in a silk handkerchief. It is a necklace, a simple chain of silver links, but it feels...
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