The Distant Summer
The orchids were dying. "You have to throw them out, Clara," Julian said, his voice light, almost playful, as if he were commenting on the weather or the price of coffee. He leaned against the doorframe of the study, holding a glass of white wine that caught the late afternoon sun. The liquid trembled slightly, a microscopic earthquake in the crystal. "They are rotting. It is unsanitary. We are...
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