The Distant Metropolis
The willow tree in the back garden did not die; it merely forgot how to be green. For three weeks, while the rain drummed a relentless, hollow rhythm against the slate roof of the farmhouse, the leaves turned a bruised purple, then a brittle gray, and finally curled inward like fists holding secrets that no one had asked to keep. Thomas, who was twelve years old and possessed of a quiet, heavy...
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