The Distant Summer
The bees were dying. Not all at once. Not with a crash of wings against glass. They ceased in silence. One by one. A slow, gray exhale. Elias stood before the hives. The air smelled of rot and honey. He wore gloves that had lost their shape. His fingers were stiff. The wood of the apiary was black. Wet with rain that did not fall. He had kept the bees for twenty years. They were his. His only....
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