The Wistful Silence
You are standing in the garden. It is not your garden. It is not any garden that belongs to the living. The grass is grey. The sky is a bruise that will not heal. You know this. You have always known this. You are looking for the fox. It is small. It is white. It is worn thin by the wind. It is the only thing that remains of your father. You do not think of him as a man. You think of him as a...
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