When Kato left his homeland, Zandria, the airport air smelled like diesel and dust — a scent he promised himself he would not forget. It was the scent of resignation, the smell of a nation stuck in the mud while the world sped past. He was twenty-three, full of quiet ambition, his mother’s only son and his late father’s unfulfilled hope. He had earned a scholarship to study political systems and governance in Norway — a land of cold winds, glass buildings, and quiet streets where buses kept time better than human hearts. For the first few months, Kato walked in a daze. He marveled at how people trusted their government, how taxes were spoken of with pride, not bitterness. When the prime minister passed by...
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