The Wistful Mountain
The air inside the greenhouse is thick, a heavy, humid blanket that presses against your skin and tastes of rotting lilies and wet stone. You are standing in the center of the glass enclosure, your fingers curled around the cold iron handle of the pruning shears, and you are waiting for the silence to break. The silence has been building for weeks, a low-frequency hum that vibrates in your...
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