The Distant Garden
The frost has taken the glass. You stare at the pane of your office, the fourth floor of the municipal ledgering bureau. Outside, the city is a skeleton of iron and soot. The wind howls through the gaps in the brickwork. It sounds like a dying animal. You are cold. Your hands are numb on the ledger. The ink freezes in the well. You must sign the name. Thomas Bradshaw. He is your friend. He is...
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