The Pale Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 04:13:45 -

The Pale Garden

The train hissed. It was a long, thin sound. Like a needle drawing through skin. I looked out the window. The fields blurred. Green and gray. Mud. I held my ticket. It was damp. My hands were shaking. Not from cold. The air in the carriage was stale. Smelled of wet wool. And old paper. My name is Arthur. I am a clerk. I count things. I balance ledgers. I am good at this. I am good at silence....

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