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"The old wooden bridge creaked under the weight of the morning mist, as if whispering secrets to the river below. A lone heron stood at the edge, its reflection rippling with every gentle breeze. Somewhere in the distance, the faint chime of a bicycle bell echoed, blending with the scent of wet earth and blooming jasmine. It was one of those rare moments when time seemed to pause, allowing the world to breathe in perfect harmony."
"From the far end of the bridge, a figure emerged through the silver haze — a traveler with a weathered satchel and eyes that carried the weight of countless journeys. The heron took flight, its wings slicing through the mist like a quiet promise.they knew this place was more than a stop along the way — it was a turning point."
"From the far end of the bridge, a figure emerged through the silver haze — a traveler with a weathered satchel and eyes that carried the weight of countless journeys. The heron took flight, its wings slicing through the mist like a quiet promise.they knew this place was more than a stop along the way — it was a turning point."
BANGLA STOP,FIRST RIGHTCUT,PERAMBALUR-621212