The Distant Garden
The fire did not start with a spark, but with a sigh, a long, exhalatory groan of the ancient oak beams that smelled of rot and old wine, cascading down from the vaulted ceiling of the Infirmary of Saint Jude’s Order, where I sat, bound not by rope but by the suffocating weight of my own complicity, staring at the small, unassuming clay pot resting on the table before me, a vessel so humble, so...
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