12. Pocketses
There are still pocketses, tiny fragments of life, clinging stubbornly to the decay. A flowerpot on a windowsill, somehow still blooming. A vine curling through a crumbled chimney, bearing glowing blue fruit. Little bursts of untouched memory. But even these are strange. Their colors too bright. Their scent too strong. A scholar once tried to harvest them for study. He returned weeks later, walking backwards, speaking in reverse, and watering his books as if they were crops.
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