The Pale Garden

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2026-08-18 16:19:23 -

The Pale Garden

The dream has no walls. Only the fog. It presses against your lungs, thick as wet wool, tasting of iron and rot. You are standing in the yard. The gate is open. It has always been open. You know what you are. You know what you did. The uniform is heavy. It sits on your shoulders like a stone coffin. The brass buttons catch the grey light. They shine. They do not reflect your face. They reflect...

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