The Pale Letter
The bees are angry. You know this. You feel the vibration in the floorboards. It is a low, thrumming hum that climbs up through your boots and settles in your teeth. "Look at them," you say to no one. Or perhaps to the glass. The hive is a black box. It sits on a stand in the center of the orchard. The orchard is dead. The trees are skeletal, stripped of their leaves by a wind that has blown...
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