The Distant Garden

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2026-08-18 04:22:31 -

The gate was not a gate but a wound in the fabric of the afternoon, a jagged tear of obsidian wood that bled into a silence so profound it hummed against the teeth, and I stood before it with my hands raw and bleeding from the iron bars of my own cage, the bars that were not bars but the rigid, unyielding lines of a duty that had calcified in my marrow until I could not distinguish the weight...

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