The Distant Promise
You wake with the taste of wet earth and iron on your tongue, the dream still clinging to the inside of your eyelids like a film of static, and the first thing you know, before the sun has even thought to strike the windowpane, is that the wisteria is wrong. It is not the pale, trembling violet you remember from the summer of your marriage, nor the heavy, sweet purple of the harvest moon, but a...
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