The Faded Ruin
The water can is cold in your hands, the metal biting into the skin of your palms as you tilt it over the ceramic pot, watching the dark soil drink greedily, a thirst that seems to outpace the supply. You are Elias, an archivist of forty-five years, and the orchid before you is the only thing in this windowless basement that has not yet been categorized, indexed, or forgotten. The light from...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews