Maeve Calloway
The ivy was so thick over the brick lane
that a person might walk by a thousand times
and never notice the iron latch shaped like a swallow.
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The Secret Garden of Whispers
Maeve pushed the door inward, and the hinge sang sweet.
No weeds grew here—only ferns as tall as cathedral organ pipes
and roses that opened their crimson lips in the cool evening shade.
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