The Distant Garden
The mud was black and slick as oil, sucking at my boots with a wet, rhythmic pull that matched the thudding of my own heart. I was bleeding from the left temple, a hot, sticky river that stung my eye and blurred the world into a smear of gray smoke and shattered brick. Around me, the air smelled of cordite and burnt hair, a sharp, metallic tang that coated the back of my throat. I could hear...
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