The Pale Banner
The bees were dying. I watched them from the high window. The glass was cold against my cheek. Outside, the sky was the color of bruised iron. Rain tapped on the slate roof. A steady, rhythmic drumming. It sounded like a heartbeat. But it was not a living thing. My hive was empty. No. Not empty. It was full of ghosts. I am a beekeeper. I have been for thirty years. My hands are stained with...
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