The Pale Garden
The soup is cold in the bowl. You stir it. The spoon clinks against the ceramic, a sharp, brittle sound that cuts through the heavy, wet silence of the kitchen. It smells of iron and old rain. You are a soldier. You have always been a soldier, though the war ended decades ago. Now, the enemy is time. It sits at the table across from you. It wears your face, but the skin is loose, draped over...
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