The Distant Garden
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the gravel drive of the Halliwell estate into a slurry of mud and broken stone. Inside the grand conservatory, where the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting orchids, Thomas Bradshaw sat at a heavy oak table, his hands resting flat against the wood as if to anchor himself to the floor. Across from...
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