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The Tree of Heaven Grows in Deserted Parking Lots
The hat merchant headed into the mountains to try his luck. He passed a plain young woman milking a cow who asked him into her farmhouse for bread and brandy, but never turned her back on him. Her widowed mother asked if he'd stay the night In exchange for the food, the bed, the oats, he let her pick a hat from his bags. She chose one made of thick red felt, and told him he shouldn't bother with the village They have all they need, she said, you won't do well there. To make a short story shorter, he found himself in her arms, on her bed, his face facing hers.