Pinion Pine

Softly, the pinion pine stands sentinel against the encroaching dusk, its sharp scent mingling with the earthy whispers of sage, lingering like a secret in the folds of a trench coat. A figure slips through the shadows, breath held tight, each inhalation a reminder of the last job gone awry, where danger lurked behind every corner and betrayal was as common as a cigarette burn. As the night deepens, the scent wraps around like a lover’s embrace, promising allure but delivering only the haunting taste of regret.