Home isn’t alwaysfour wallsor a street with your name on the mailbox. Sometimesit’s the scent left behindon a borrowed hoodie. It’s sawdust and sweat.Sun-warmed skin.A little bit of summer,a little bit of hard work,and somehow…peace. I never understoodhow a personcould become a placeuntil I caught myselfbreathing you inlong after you’d gone. The strangest part? It…

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