There was no story behind it, only a fork in the road.
On the dusty road for hours, the pilgrims wedged into hard, narrow seats – the heat – after a few hours the mind went numb, shaken into the deep potholes and constant smell of stale sweat.
The ancient bus halted. The engine idling, a blue haze – indivisible – had filled the interior, which ever way was taken, whether to beauty or disgust.
The bus lurched forward. A woman let out a screech, pulling her standing mother back into the seat beside her – indifferent – her eyes closed, her lips silently mouthing.
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