The Distant Garden

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2026-08-19 16:43:24 -

The stamp hit the paper. Thud. Red ink. Rejected. I stared at the mark. It was perfect. Circular. Bold. A seal of finality. I am a data entry clerk. I work in a basement. The walls are concrete. The air is stale. It smells of ozone and old paper. My name is Arthur. I am forty-two years old. I sit in a cubicle. The fabric is gray. It absorbs light. It absorbs sound. It absorbs me. The stamp is...

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