You're tearing down a fog-shrouded highway at dawn, wind clawing at your collar, when some beat-up diner sign flickers into view. You pull over, order black coffee that tastes like regret, and spot the guy in the corner booth—leather jacket scarred from a thousand untold scrapes, eyes like he's seen ghosts of routes not taken. That's the wanderer. Not the Instagram poser with a rented...
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