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Not poetically. He just genuinely hated them. Trees everywhere. All the same shade of green. Just endless bark and branches and the genuine suspicion that he’d passed the same shrub twenty times.

She used to tease him for it, rolling her eyes before rattling off the names of every tree in sight, as if proving how easy it was.

“That’s an oak, Sir D. And that is a pine,” she’d say, her tone just shy of condescending. “Honestly, how can you not tell the difference between a ...

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