The Distant Garden
The bus smelled of wet wool and stale coffee, a pungent, industrial scent that clung to the lining of my coat and seemed to seep into the pores of my skin. I sat in the back row, knees drawn up, watching the city slide past the grimy glass in a blur of gray concrete and sickly yellow streetlights. It was late, or perhaps early; time had lost its rigid architecture here, dissolving into a...
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