The touch of winter haunted the garden. An autumnal chill crept into Sean's bones as he cut down the last, dying remnants of summer's growth. When he'd been with Viggo, the garden had been verdant, lush, alive. But Viggo had moved on and the garden was now a place of brittle, brown stalks and barren trees.
In spring, new growth would thrive again. But what of his bond with Viggo?
Would their connection be a tender shoot, pushing its way up through black earth, or one of this year's blooms, rotting and forgotten in a dank corner of the garden?
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