The Pale Garden
The first thing Elias noticed was the smell, a thick, cloying sweetness that sat in the back of his throat like a swallowed stone, overpowering the usual damp rot of the cellar. It was the scent of overripe pears, of sugar left too long in the sun, a fragrance that promised preservation but delivered only decay. He stood in the doorway of the Whitmore estate’s subterranean archives, his small...
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