The Pale Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 13:56:21 -

The Pale Garden

The fever broke not with a sweat, but with a hunger. Silas woke to the taste of copper on his tongue. The air in the wagon was thick, stale, smelling of wet wool and the rotting wood of the axle. Outside, the rain lashed the canvas roof in a rhythmic, percussive hiss. He was not a man of flesh, though he wore the shape of one. He was a thing of moss and root, of damp earth and slow decay, bound...

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