The Distant Journey
The rain does not fall; it hangs, a grey curtain drawn tight across the window of the bus, blurring the world into a smear of wet asphalt and dying neon. You are sitting in the third row, your legs folded beneath you, your knuckles white as you grip the handle above the seat. It is not fear that tightens your hands, not really. It is the weight of the air, thick with the smell of wet wool and...
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