The Pale Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 19:21:27 -

The Pale Garden

You are buried. Not in dirt. In stone. The walls breathe. You know this. You have always known. The air is cold. It tastes of iron. And old blood. You press your palm flat. The surface is smooth. It pulses. Like a vein. Who put you here? The question is loud. It drowns out your heartbeat. You remember a door. Wood. Oak. A handle of black iron. You remember walking. Into a room. The room was...

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