The Distant Garden
The brass key in your pocket is warm. It is warm because it is alive. You know this. You have known it since the day you buried your husband in the garden behind the mill, where the soil was black and hungry and tasted of iron. You are Eleanor. You are the keeper of the key. You are the wife who did not weep. You are the woman who sold the furniture, the silver, the coats, and finally, the...
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