The Pale Protocol
You have kept the garden for forty years, and in that time, you have learned that silence is not the absence of sound but the presence of a held breath. The manor house, cold and sprawling like a sleeping beast, stands at the edge of the moor, its stones furred with lichen and memory. You are old now, your hands gnarled like the roots of the yew tree you planted in your youth, and you know that...
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