The Faded Ruin
"You keep the vines," the man in the grey suit said. He did not look at us. He looked at the window. He looked at the rain. He looked at nothing. "The vines are property. The house is property. You are... temporary." I held the jar. It was cold. It was heavy. Inside, the bees were silent. They were not dead. They were waiting. "Temporary," I repeated. My voice sounded thin. It sounded like dry...
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