The Distant Garden
The feast was a wound in the dark, a sprawling table of black oak stretching into the mist of the valley, laden with meats that smoked like incense and breads that cracked like dry earth. You sat at the center, the guest of honor, though you felt less like a king and more like a relic placed in a museum of the living. The air was thick with the scent of rosemary and blood, the ancient perfume...
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