The Distant Ghost
The oak tree stands in the center of the room. It is not a painting. It is not a carving. It is wood. Dark, dense, and cold. It has roots that grip the stone floor. It has leaves that do not fall. It has a trunk that does not bend. I am sitting in the chair opposite it. The room is small. The walls are thick. The air is still. I am a soldier. I am alone. The oak is my companion. It is my judge....
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