The Pale Garden
You wake in a room where the air tastes of iron and old roses, the kind of scent that clings to the lining of a throat long after the flower has withered and crumbled into the dark earth, a heavy, cloying sweetness that feels less like a perfume and more like a warning, a whisper of decay dressed in the language of beauty, and you find yourself standing in the center of a garden that should not...
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