The Golden Maze
The snow fell in sheets. It buried the road. It buried the past. I drove north. The engine hummed. A low, tired note. My hands shook on the wheel. Not from cold. From age. Fifty years. They weigh heavy. They sit on the chest. They press the breath out. I was going to the estate. To see the trees. Or what was left of them. The oaks. My father’s oaks. I had planted them. When I was young. When I...
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