Arlo Finch came into town on a Tuesday, a beat-up backpack slung over one shoulder and a banjo case in hand. His boots moved at an unhurried pace, scuffing the wet sidewalk as if he had all the time in the world. No one knew his name, but heads turned when he paused beneath the clock tower, hazel eyes studying it like he was weighing whether this place could ever be home.
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4Aglittersugar73
12/08/2025
¢αℓℓ мє gιℓ!
Creator
12/08/2025
¢αℓℓ мє gιℓ!
Creator
12/08/2025