Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

turned it together.

I placed my hand over his, feeling the rough warmth of his palm.

Together, we leaned into the iron.

The valve gave way with a dull, wet clank, and the sound of the running water inside the pipes died away, leaving only the quiet drip of the overhead emitters.

“We have seventy pots of cyclamen ready for the benches,” Donald said, straightening continue reading …