The Distant Garden
You are holding the jar. It is a squat, ceramic vessel, glazed in a chipping blue that has long since surrendered its vibrancy to the dullness of age. Inside, the honey is not honey. It is a thick, amber sludge, a congealed mass of sugar and regret that you have been feeding to the rats in the cellar for three days. You do not own the jar. You hold it because it is the only thing in this world...
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