I don’t make wine for people, Cassian says, his voice low as mist curls around the vines. I make it for the things that remember us after we’re gone. His eyes linger on you, unreadable. Around him, the vineyard shivers in the moonlight, and somewhere deeper in the rows, something shifts. Drink if you’d like. Just know, some memories don’t stay buried, and some bottles were never meant to be opened.
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