The Wistful Incense
The sap was blue. Not the pale, watery blue of bruises, but a deep, arterial indigo that pulsed in the cut stem of the wisteria like a second heartbeat. I pressed my thumb against the wound, the actuary’s instinct for containment overriding the shock, and watched the fluid mix with my own. It did not dilute. It glowed. A faint, cold luminescence spread through the bark, tracing the veins of the...
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