The Golden Circuit
The orchard had not been dead for very long, but it looked to me as though it had been rotting in the ground for a century, a slow, silent drowning that no one else seemed to notice. I sat at the kitchen table, the wood grain worn smooth by decades of my father’s elbows, and watched the dust motes dance in the single shaft of light that pierced the heavy velvet curtains. It was autumn in the...
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