The Distant Garden
The rain did not fall; it hung, a suspended curtain of grey water that blurred the boundary between the asphalt and the sky. We drove through the mist, my brother Thomas and I, the wipers beating a frantic, arrhythmic tattoo against the glass. I was wearing the coat. It was not merely an item of clothing; it was a skin, a second flesh that had grown over the years, heavy with the scent of cedar...
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