The Distant Garden

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2026-08-20 15:24:20 -

The morning I left the house that my father had built with his own hands, the air was so thin and cold it felt like biting into ice, and I knew then that the road ahead would not lead back to the warm, yellow light of the kitchen where he sat shuffling his cards. I walked out into the grey expanse of the moor, my boots crunching on the frost that had crystallized the dead ferns and the sparse,...

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