The Pale Garden

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2026-08-17 17:22:29 -

The Pale Garden

The hand was red. It hung in the air, trembling, a pendulum of blood and bone. Marguerite Ashworth held it before her. She did not drop it. She never dropped it. The fingers were still. The nails were clean. The skin was pale, almost translucent, revealing the dark veins beneath like roots in frozen soil. It was a beautiful thing. It was a terrible thing. She stood in the garden. The iron gate...

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