The Distant Garden
The spoon is bent. It is a small, tarnished thing, no larger than your thumb, and it is the only object in the entire Hall of St. Jude’s that feels real to you. You hold it in your left hand, the knuckles white, the metal digging into the flesh of your palm until the pain is a sharp, bright anchor against the rising tide of noise. The hall is a cathedral of grey stone, vaulted high above, where...
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