Trumbull has been hiding some secrets from me. For instance: up the crooked staircase...
Across the tree roots...
Past the old red buildings...
Through the foreboding fairy-tale gate...
There is an orchard.
Little trees in rows, little trees tilted crazily to one side, little trees bent and twisted along a quiet path.
A municipal orchard.
So much nicer than the mall.
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