Withered

Autumn is coming. The hawthorn fruits have appeared already. I pick them up, thinking of you. Handful. It’s all I have.

Do you know what they smell like? After all these years they smell like nothing.

After all these years of walking towards a house in the middle of the woods, where so many unexpected things happened, so many intense emotions emerged, where so many painful events took place, it still feels like nothing.

I think, I’ll just wait for the hawthorn to wither.

Will I ever get there?

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