The Distant Journey
The bus smelled of wet wool and stale coffee. It smelled of the institution. Clara sat by the window, her fingers digging into the small, round mirror hanging from her purse strap. The glass was cracked. A spiderweb of fractures ran from the center to the edge. She held it tight. The vibration of the engine made the shards dance. "Mind the gap," the driver called. He didn’t look at her. He...
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