The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-19 04:20:50 -

The frost took the orchard first. Then the house. Then the name of my father. I am Thomas. I was the scholar. Now I am only the son who stayed. The air is thin. It tastes of iron and old blood. The tree stands in the yard. It is an oak. It does not die. It has outlived three generations of men. I look at it. It looks at me. We are both trapped. The bark is grey. It is the color of my father’s...

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