The Olive Tree
The wind in Provence does not blow; it screams. The Mistral tears across the plain from the north at a hundred kilometers an hour, flattening wheat, stripping leaves from trees, and making it impossible to walk without leaning into it like a man at war. Pierre Blanc understood the wind the way a priest understands silence. He was twenty-six, quiet, and lived on a slope above Saint-Rémy that his...
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