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"Can I Use Your Phone?"

Harold Dempsey had spent most of his sixty-three years refining his handshake—firm, warm, and just long enough to say “I’m your man” without seeming overeager. Time hadn’t been cruel, but it hadn’t been kind, either: his button-downs strained over a soft belly, and his jowls hung heavy beneath his chin. Still, he wore a tie every day and polished his shoes until they gleamed. That afternoon, after a routine meeting with a chain of supply stores in a town that might as well have been named Oblivion Junction, he checked into the Westernaire Motor Lodge. The two-story brick building looked tired, its carpets threadbare. Room 117 smelled faintly of bleach, with an undercurrent of something unplaceable. He was bone-tired, his undershirt damp against his back, and all he wanted was a hot shower. He shed his suit and left it in a heap on the vinyl armchair, then wrapped the laughably small towel around his waist with practiced ease. The water pressure was more trickle than torrent, but he sto...
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Under the Perseids

8:47 p.m. The parking lot of the community center was nearly full when Marcus arrived, his sedan sliding into one of the last spots between a minivan and someone's ancient Buick. He sat for a moment, engine ticking as it cooled, wondering what exactly had possessed him to sign up for this. A stargazing event. For seniors. He was sixty-two, which he supposed qualified him, though he didn't feel senior. He felt invisible, which was different. Felt like someone had turned down his volume gradually over the years until he'd become background noise in his own life. The email had arrived two weeks ago from the city's recreation department—"Summer Stargazing: Perseid Meteor Shower Viewing Party." He'd deleted it twice before finally clicking the registration link at eleven o'clock on a Wednesday night, half a bottle of wine in, thinking about how long it had been since he'd looked up at anything. Now he was here, clutching a folding chair and a thermos of...
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The Misfit Table

Henry had always considered himself content. A retired English teacher with a tidy little house, a garden full of overgrown roses, and an enviable vinyl collection, he was used to solitude. Not lonely—just used to being alone. But as the string quartet began a soft rendition of Clair de Lune in the grand ballroom, he realized contentment was a fragile thing. He stood at the edge of the room, adjusting his tie—burgundy silk, a gift from a former student—and tried to steady his nerves. The wedding was for his niece, Clara, the last in a line of nieces and nephews who had grown up and moved on. The ballroom glittered with fairy lights and elegant sprays of white peonies, as couples twirled across the dance floor and generations of family toasted to new beginnings. Yet Henry felt as though he were floating slightly above it all—unmoored, watching life pass him by. When he finally found his seat, it was at what someone had jokingly dubbed “the misfit table.” A cluster of leftover guests: ag...
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Wings of Freedom

At a US Air Force Base nestled in the post-World War II countryside, laughter and joy filled the air as people celebrated in the atmosphere. Among them, First Lieutenant Jonathan Collins found himself in a cozy pub called "Wings of Freedom," surrounded by lively conversations and stories. Jonathan, a schoolteacher from Wisconsin, had joined the military after the attack on Pearl Harbor. He had an impressive record, but he never tried to stand out among high-ranking officers. This didn't bother him much as he was at a crossroads in his life; his wife had left him for the town's mayor and he didn't want to return home. Despite this, he held no resentment towards his ex-wife; their marriage had been distant. Unlike his fellow comrades who often participated in wild activities, Jonathan preferred to keep to himself- he was basically an innocent in many ways.  As the night went on and he became slightly intoxicated, Major William Johnson, known for his stern demeanor a...
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