The Distant Joke
The fern was dying in the corner. It sat in a cracked plastic pot on the floorboards. Its fronds, once a vibrant, jagged green, had turned the color of dried hay. They curled inward, brittle and brown. Elias held it. He held it with a tenderness that felt wrong, a care that had no place in this room. The room smelled of dust and old paper. The light from the window was gray. He looked at the...
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