The Distant Summer
The larch tree stood at the center of the quadrangle, a sentinel of pale gold against the bruised twilight of the abbey’s cloister, its needles shedding with the silent, relentless precision of a clockwork mechanism that had no end. I remember the day I left, not as a departure but as a severance, a clean cut made by a surgical instrument rather than a jagged tear, and I remember that I looked...
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