The Distant Garden

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2026-08-20 05:19:43 -

I hold the key. It is iron. Cold. Heavy. It hangs at my hip. A loop of leather. Worn thin. The man looks at me. He is tall. He wears a tunic. White. Stark. He does not speak. I do not speak. We stand in the hall. The floor is stone. Cold. The air is thick. It smells of dust. And old wood. This is the house. It is my house. Or so I am told. The key is the only thing that matters. I remember the...

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