The Pale Garden
The glass necklace shatters before you even touch it. This is the first thing you must understand about the silence that follows, the way it does not break but deepens, a fissure in the earth that swallows the sound of your own breathing. You are standing in the center of the moor, where the heather is the color of dried blood and the sky is a bruised purple that has no name in any language you...
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