The Distant Garden
The dust in the archive room did not merely settle; it hung, suspended in a static field that felt heavier than air. I was elbow-deep in the ledger of 1894, my fingers tracing the brittle spines of records that smelled of iron and decay, when the shelf beside me groaned. It was not a sound of wood giving way under weight, but a structural sigh, a release of tension that had been held for a...
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