The Distant Garden
You wake with the taste of rusted iron on your tongue, a metallic tang that coats the soft palate and refuses to wash away with the lukewarm water from the tap, the kind of water that has sat in the pipes for too long, gathering the ghosts of the building’s decay. You are standing in the center of the atrium of the Ministry of Aesthetic Compliance, a vast, echoing hall where the air is...
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