Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

deep wooden bin.

“The drainage is better in these old ones,” he said, his voice quiet against the soft hum of the heater.

I watched him press the soil around the base of the cyclamen, his fingers working with a deliberate, slow rhythm that I had not seen since the summer. There was no rush in his movements now, none of the tight, fearful hurry that had continue reading …