The Faded Dust
The bus smells of wet wool and diesel, a scent that clings to your coat like a second skin. You are sitting in the back, near the emergency exit, where the light from the streetlamps outside cuts through the grime in sharp, yellow slivers. The city outside is a blur of grey and black, the rain falling in sheets that turn the streetlights into weeping stars. You are holding a small, rusted key...
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