The Things That Remain
The bayou doesn't forgive. It takes slowly, patiently, the way a spider takes a fly—not with violence but with inevitability. The water rises and lowers, and the cypress trees drink it and exhale it as mist, and the land shifts imperceptibly, grain by grain, toward the Gulf. Maybelle Beauregard knew this. She had known it since she was small enough to sit on her mother's lap and watch the water...
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