The Distant Garden
The morning air in the valley of Kestrel was not merely cold but possessed a specific, metallic viscosity that clung to the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat like a living thing, settling into the weave with a persistence that mirrored the slow, grinding inevitability of the industrial sprawl that had swallowed the hillsides only a decade prior. Elias stood at the edge of the old quarry, his hand...
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