The Wistful Skyline
The old man did not look up when the boy entered the orchard. He was sitting on a stump, his back curved like a question mark drawn in charcoal against the grey sky, and his hands were buried in the dirt up to the wrists. The soil here was not the brown, forgiving earth of the valley below; it was black, wet, and smelled of iron and rot. It clung to the boy’s fingers like wet sand, refusing to...
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