That afternoon, when I brought her home, her grandmother thanked me again.
And when I tried to leave, the girl wrapped her arms around me and asked:
“When are you coming back?”
I told myself I wouldn’t.
But I did.
The next morning.
And the next.
Every day at 7 a.m., she’d be waiting on the porch, backpack on, eyes scanning the street for me like I was the bus she couldn’t afford to miss.
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