The Pale Garden
The fog presses against the windowpane like a wet, grey hand. You are in the cellar. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and old iron, a smell that coats the back of your throat. You do not remember how you came here. You only remember the weight of the key in your pocket, cold and heavy as a stone. The silence is not empty. It is full. It hums with a low, subsonic vibration that you...
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