The Distant Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 03:25:41 -

The feast was loud. Too loud. Cupboards rattled. Beers frothed. We ate. We drank. The air was thick. Smelled of wet wool. And old blood. And stale bread. I sat. At the edge. My hands were still. Always still. They were not mine. Not really. They were tools. Worn smooth. By time. By use. By betrayal. Old Thomas sat across. His face was a map. Of folds. And scars. He looked at me. With eyes like...

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