The Distant Garden
You leave the door open. The air is thick. It smells of rot and rosewater. You are the keeper. You are the merchant of breath. The hall is cold. Stone floors. High windows. Light falls in shafts. Dust motes dance. They are alive. They are dead. You do not care. You have your work. The jars are on the table. Glass. Clear. Empty. Not empty. Full of potential. Full of hunger. You pick up the first...
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