The Pale Garden
The roses were dying because I stopped watering them. I watched the leaves curl, brown at the edges, like old paper held too close to a flame. I had been a groundskeeper at St. Jude’s for four years, long enough to know that soil does not forgive neglect, but short enough to know that the institution itself was rotting from the inside out. Thomas had planted the first bed of David Austins three...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen