The Distant Garden
The rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray sheet that turned the cobbled streets of the old garrison town into slick, dark mirrors, and it was in this damp, unyielding quiet that Captain Arthur Penhaligon sat in his study, a room that smelled of wet wool, old paper, and the faint, metallic tang of the iron lung that occupied the corner, waiting for the lungs of men who could...
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