The Golden Circuit
The oak tree is dead. You know this. You have known it for three months. Its leaves are gone, stripped by a wind that felt personal, vindictive. It stands in the center of your garden like a grey sentinel, skeletal and unapologetic. Your husband, Julian, calls it a hazard. He says the branches will fall. He says the roots will crack the foundation. He says it is time to cut it down. You do not...
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