The Faded Chronicle
The sycamores in the courtyard of the municipal water authority building in Ashford were dying, a fact that had been whispered in the breakrooms and shouted in the corridors with the frantic, disjointed energy of a plague, their leaves turning a sickly, translucent yellow before they even touched the ground, dropping like ash from a fire that had no heat, a slow, sweet rotting that seemed to...
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