The Pale Garden
The iron bars did not rust. This was the first anomaly I noted, though I told myself it was merely a trick of the light, a peculiar preservation brought about by the stagnant air of the cell. For three years, I had counted the chisel marks in the stone, the way the lichen crept in slow, silent processions across the floor, the rhythmic dripping of water from the vaulted ceiling above. I was...
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