The Distant Garden
You are sitting in the blue hour of the library, the air thick with the scent of decaying cellulose and the faint, metallic tang of old iron, while your brother, Arthur, stands before you with the calm, devastating precision of a surgeon preparing to cut out a tumor that he believes is a cure, and he says, "It is not a matter of preference, Elias, but of architectural integrity, of the...
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