A refugee from the 1930s, the bus station was a place caught in a temporal bubble. I switched between pacing the well-worn floor and sitting in the rock-hard benches as I waited, my mind aflame with her memories, the way she had left eight months ago, yesterday’s frantic text message and the ticket I had purchased online.
The bus finally arrived. I saw her in the middle of the crowd before she saw me. Everything she owned in the world fit in a small bag and a backpack. I was about to turn and leave when I noticed the baby.
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