The Wistful Saga
October 14, 1998. The truck’s engine ticked as it cooled in the dust, a sound that felt like the last heartbeat of the world I was leaving behind. I watched Mara pack the duffel bag, her movements slow and deliberate, as if she were trying to stretch out the moment of departure. She did not look at me; she looked at the horizon where the high desert met the sky, a line so sharp it could cut...
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