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at the wine, swirling it in my glass. “I’m exhausted.”
He chuckled. “Good. Means you’re actually working.”
I looked at him, seeing the lines deepening in his face, the way his hands shook slightly when he lifted his glass. “Are you scared?” I asked.
He didn’t pretend confusion. “Yes. But not of dying.”
“Of what, then?”
He gazed at the vineyard stretching continue reading …
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