The Faded Quadrant
The willow tree at the edge of the pond does not die. It is the first thing you notice, and the last thing you can deny. Its branches, long and weeping, hang over the black water like the hair of a widow who has forgotten how to mourn. You have come to the city of Ashford to study the geometry of stars, to chart the movements of celestial bodies that do not care for the mud beneath your boots....
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