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.
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