The Pale Garden
"You’re still here." The voice came from the shadows of the cellar, low and raspy, like gravel shifting under a heavy boot. I did not turn. I kept my eyes on the damp stone wall, where the condensation wept in slow, silver trails. The air in the basement of the Whitmore Textile Mill was thick, a physical weight that pressed against my eardrums, smelling of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the...
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