The Distant Garden
The road was not a road. It was a vein of gray dust pulsing under the weight of her tires. Margaret drove. She did not look at the rearview mirror. She knew what was in it. She knew the shape of the absence. She was returning to the house. The house that stood on the hill, the one that watched the valley like a blind eye. For three years, she had been gone. Three years of war. Three years of...
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