The Pale Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 16:58:54 -

The Pale Garden

The iron gates screamed as they fell. I stood in the mud. The sky was the color of bruised plums. Ash drifted down like snow that had forgotten how to melt. The garden was gone. Not dead. Gone. Replaced by a wasteland of twisted metal and black glass. I am Thomas Bradshaw. I was a botanist. Or I thought I was. I was a prisoner of my own knowledge. The air tasted of copper. It coated my tongue....

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