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When the planet turned hot and dry, and all greenery withered and died, I became a ghost hunter. Not for human ghosts. I search for the ghosts of forests. When the moon is right, you can see them shimmering in the desert, a sea of phantom foliage swaying soundlessly, lit up like dust in the beam of a flashlight. I don't know if anyone else can see them. I don't know if they're gone forever. But if I keep watering their memory, maybe one day they'll grow back.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
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