The Pale Garden

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2026-08-20 11:16:08 -

The Pale Garden

The dream smelled of wet chalk and rust. Silas stood in the garden. It was not a garden of earth. It was a garden of glass. Every stem, every leaf, every thorn was made of a pale, translucent substance that hummed with a low, electric frequency. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and old paper. He knew this place. He had been here before. Or perhaps he was just about to be. The...

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