We push open the cracked door, and listen to it complain as rusty hinges bite. The greenhouse is old, dusty; plants are spilling over their baskets reaching for the ground. After a few minutes, I look outside; the sky is gone. So are the hills and the trees, lost in a thick, damp fog.

It’s as though we have skipped a season, time moving faster outside than here with us. But that’s okay: I’m warm, I’m dry, and I’m with you.


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