“Each Thursday, my father would tend to the garden of that old house at the end of the street. No one lives there anymore. The lady who lived there died years ago. But he was compelled to keep that garden growing. Maybe he thought it would keep her spirit alive, if he didn’t let those plants die. The thing is, he was right. All those times I would go there, watch him tend to those plants and keep that gardens growing, I would discover there was more to that place, something still clinging to the roots of the plants my father was desperate to maintain.”
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