The Distant Temple
The jar is heavy in your hands. It is made of thick, green glass, etched with a pattern of vines that has long since worn smooth. Inside, the honey sits dark and still. It is not the honey of your childhood. It is not the honey of this town. You bought it from a man in a grey coat who stands by the river every Tuesday. He does not speak. He does not look at you. He only places the jar on the...
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