The Distant Garden
The door clicks. It is a small sound. A metal tongue. It slides into place. You are in the room. The room is grey. The walls are brick. The brick is old. It is cold. You sit. You do not move. You hold the box. The box is wood. It is dark. It is heavy. You have held it for years. It is yours. The air is thin. It smells of dust. It smells of iron. You breathe in. You breathe out. The clock...
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