The Wistful Silence
The bus stops. It is not a gentle stop. It is a halt, a cessation of motion that leaves your lungs full of the stale, recycled air of the route. You step out onto the platform. The concrete is cold. It seeps through the soles of your shoes. You are here. You have arrived. The sign above the entrance reads Department of Internal Operations. The letters are white. They are slightly chipped. The...
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