The Distant Garden
The rain had ceased, leaving the air suspended in a wet, grey silence that clung to the shoulders of the city like a heavy, mourning veil. Arthur Penhaligon stood at the window of his office on the fourteenth floor, watching the water drip from the awning of the street below, a rhythmic, metronomic tick that seemed to measure the remaining seconds of his professional life. He was a man of...
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