The Wistful Show

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2026-08-19 10:10:37 -

The Wistful Show

I dreamt of the elm. It stood in the square, its leaves turning a bruised purple before my eyes. I tried to shake the dust from my coat. The branch did not move. I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth. The city was grey. Not the soft grey of rain, but the hard grey of stone. I walked fast. My shoes clicked on the pavement. Click. Click. Click. The sound echoed in the narrow street. I was...

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