The Faded Root
The bus is late. You know it is late because the rain has stopped and the silence in the depot is too heavy. You are standing by the window. Your badge is in your pocket. It feels like a stone. Cold. Hard. It presses against your hip bone. You are waiting for the 9:15. You are not supposed to be here. You are supposed to be at the precinct. Or at home. But you are here. The depot smells of wet...
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