The Pale Garden
The taste of copper fills your mouth before the sound of the breaking glass does, a metallic tang that coats the tongue and settles heavy in the throat, a premonition of blood that has not yet been spilled but is already waiting, patient as a spider in the corner of the room. You stand in the center of the conservatory, the air thick with the scent of rotting lilies and the damp, earthy smell...
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