The Pale Garden
"You have the look of a man who has forgotten how to bleed," said the woman in the high-backed chair, her voice a dry rasp that seemed to scrape against the dust motes dancing in the shafts of grey light piercing the heavy velvet curtains. I did not answer, for my tongue felt swollen and foreign in my mouth, a tool ill-fitted to the task of speech, and instead I focused my gaze upon the single...
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