The Pale Garden
The rain hits the window like a fist. You wake with your mouth full of dust. It is the taste of the old house, the one your father bought before he vanished. You are a soldier now, or a cop, the titles blur in the gray light. You wear the uniform. It fits tight across the shoulders. You go to the cellar. You must go to the cellar. The stairs are wet. Your boots slip on the stone. The air down...
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