The Distant Garden

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2026-08-19 08:16:50 -

The garden was not a garden. It was a wound in the earth, a patch of black soil that breathed. I knew this. I had worked the soil for forty years, pulling weeds, pruning the rosebushes, and watching the light die behind the iron fence. I knew the land. I did not know what lived inside it. Margaret stood at the window. She always stood there. Her back was to me, her hands resting on the sill....

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