The Distant Garden
"You are late." The voice came from the corner of the room. It was not a voice. It was a sound made of gravel and static, vibrating against the back of your skull. You did not turn. You knew who was there. Or rather, you knew what was there. The shadow had a name now. It was Margaret. "It is not time yet," you said. Your voice sounded thin. Paper-thin. It tore easily in the dry air of the...
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