The Distant Garden
You wake in the damp cellar of the old textile mill, the air thick with the scent of mildew and forgotten copper coins, and you are already sweating, not from the heat, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the lie you are about to tell. You are Elias Thorne, or at least, that is the name on the ledger you are holding, a leather-bound book of accounts that feels less like a record of...
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