The Distant Whispers
The rain did not fall so much as it existed, a dense, grey curtain that erased the boundary between the street and the sidewalk. Margaret held the fern in her hands. It was not a healthy plant. The fronds were curling inward, brittle at the tips, the green fading to a sickly, translucent yellow. She had bought it for forty dollars from a man who sold only things that were dying. He had called...
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