The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-22 01:00:18 -

The frost came early. It crept across the stone floor of the cellar, a white lace that tightened its grip on the roots of the oak tree. I watched it. My hands were rough, stained with soil and sap. I was a gardener in a world that had forgotten how to grow things. Not flowers. Not fruit. Only the old, hard things. The ones that do not rot. The cellar was small. A cube of darkness. The air was...

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