The Pale Garden
The iron gate shudders against its rusted hinges, a groan that travels up through the soles of your boots and settles, heavy and cold, in the pit of your stomach, as you stand before the wrought-iron threshold of the Blackwood Estate, where the fog clings to the cobblestones like a shroud refusing to release its dead. You are not merely a gardener, though your hands are stained with the black...
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