The Faded Frontier
I dreamt of the orchard. It was not the rotting place I knew, the one with the broken fence and the grey dust settling on the leaves. In the dream, the apple trees stood in perfect, rigid rows. The air smelled of cold iron and crushed petals. I stood at the end of a row, holding a silver pruning shears. The metal was warm in my hand. I could hear the sound of my own breathing, steady and...
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