The Wistful Throne
The elm tree in the courtyard did not die, it simply refused to speak to us, standing as a silent, verdant witness to the slow unraveling of our house, its branches reaching up like the gnarled fingers of a saint who had long since forgotten the words of the prayers he once knew with such fervor, while I, the new steward of this decaying estate, sat beneath its shade with a notebook in my lap...
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