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Summary
A lot has changed.
But Jackson Square remains the same. Their bench still rests under the same tree, facing the same cathedral, under the same warm lighting from the same street lamp under the same stars.
He sits on the left side. Crosses his leg over the other, stretches his arm along the back, closes his eyes. And he waits. He listens to people pass him by; listens to the blood rushing through their veins, the drunken and off key singing, the low murmurs of lovers whispering to each other. It’s all familiar, like coming home after some time away.