The airport smelled faintly of coffee, cleaning chemicals, and the restless energy of people in a hurry.
That’s what stood out to me as we waited near the security line at Hartsfield–Jackson, watching travelers rush by with rolling bags and half-empty cups in their hands. The bright lights above made everything feel too sharp, too exposed. Somewhere overhead, a television droned quietly about highway traffic and an approaching storm, blending into the constant hum of the terminal.
It should have felt like any other night.
Just another trip. Just another routine goodbye.
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