The Distant Garden
The garden was not a place, but a boundary, a thin membrane of light stretched taut across the void, vibrating with the faint, high-pitched hum of centuries. I stood on the other side, my hand pressed against the glass, feeling the cold seep into my bones, a cold that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the erosion of the self. We were told that the King’s court was the...
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