The Faded Paradox
The first thing I noticed, in the grey, suspended silence that followed the explosion of the glass, was not the smell of burning wood or the acrid bite of ozone, but the scent of rosemary, sharp and green and impossibly fresh, drifting up from the shattered remains of the jar that had sat on my windowsill for forty years. It was a scent that belonged to a different century, a time before the...
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