The Wistful Skyline
The bus hissed to a stop at the edge of the parking lot, and I stepped out onto the cracked asphalt, the air already thick with the scent of cut grass and diesel. It was the kind of hot, still morning in late June that makes the world feel suspended, as if time itself had run out of breath. I was sixteen, and I was leaving. Not for a vacation, not for a weekend trip, but for the Summer Youth...
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