The Distant Garden

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2026-08-18 10:21:56 -

The feast was not a feast of joy. It was a feast of hunger. You sit at the long table of oak. The wood is dark, polished by centuries of hands that are now dust. The candles burn low. Their light is the color of old blood. You are the investigator. You seek the truth. You seek the end. The room is full. Men and women in robes of wool and linen. They eat. They drink. They do not look at you....

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