The Wistful Voyage
Could the roots of a thing remember the weight of the soil that killed them? Ingrid Krueger asked the question to the withering orchids in the signal tower’s glasshouse, her fingers stained with the dark, wet earth of the alpine farms, where the geometry of dust and palm-like shadows had long since replaced the greenery she tried to cultivate. She was thirty-two, a widow by accident, and the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews