The Distant Garden
The letter sat on the kitchen table, a rectangular island of cream-colored paper in a sea of unwashed dishes and cold coffee. It was from the Ministry of Reclamation, a department I had only heard whispered about in the pubs, a place where men with chalk-dust on their collars spoke of borders that were not lines on a map but scars in the skin of the nation. My name was Thomas Bradshaw, and I...
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