She took his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "December, here, is not an ending, Leo. It's not a closing of the year. It's a beginning. The wattles are about to bloom. The cicadas are tuning up. It's the season of long, slow evenings."
"What season is it?" he whispered, more to himself than to her. The jet lag was a fog, but this was deeper. He had left his bones in the cold, and now he had to learn to live in a body that was sweating. what season is in australia now
"It's summer," he said. "It's the middle of the story, not the end." She took his hand, her grip surprisingly strong
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