The Distant Garden

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2026-08-20 18:32:43 -

The iron keys hung from his belt like a heavy, silent tongue. They did not jingle. They never jingled. In the damp stone corridors of the Abbey, sound was a luxury the stone drank up. Brother Thomas stood in the scriptorium. The ink was black. The parchment was white. He was not a monk. He was the Warden. He held the keys. He held the record. Outside, the rain tapped against the high, narrow...

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