The Faded Root
The garden at the end of Hammersmith Lane had once been something more than weeds and memory, but by the time I found it, memory was all that remained. I had inherited it along with the house — a narrow Georgian terrace on the edge of Fulham that nobody in my family had visited in thirty years. The solicitor called it a "small windfall." My mother called it "Mama's old place." I called it...
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