The Distant Garden
The orchids on the windowsill were dying, their petals curling inward like fists refusing to open. I sat on the floor of the high-rise apartment, the cold tile seeping through my jeans, and watched them. They were white, pristine and fragile, a monument to the life we used to have. My name is Elias, and I am seven years old, or at least I feel that way, trapped in a body that is learning how to...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews