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The sky over the small coastal town was a bruised purple, heavy with the promise of a deluge that would eventually wash away the remaining heat of summer. Twenty years ago, on a night much like that one, I found myself navigating the treacherous curves of the old county highway. I was young then, exhausted from a double shift at the local diner, and gripped by the kind of primal anxiety that only a blinding rainstorm can induce. The wipers on my beat-up sedan were a frantic, rhythmic blur, struggling against a curtain of water so thick it felt as though I were driving through an ocean.
I wasn’t looking for a purpose that night; I was simply looking for my driveway. But then, the headlights caught a flicker of movement near the skeletal remains of a roadside bus stop. Huddled against the rotted wood was a figure so gaunt and drenched he seemed to be melting into the landscape. It was James. At that moment, he wasn’t a businessman or a success story; he was a man at the absolute nadir of human existence. His jacket was a collection of sodden rags, and his posture was that of someone who had finally decided to let the world win.
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