The Distant Garden
The ink is wet on the ledger, and you know it is the last one. You sit in the back office of the Ashworth & Sons Printing House, the air thick with the smell of turpentine and old paper, while outside the rain hammers against the glass with a rhythmic, industrial persistence that feels less like weather and more like a verdict. Your hands are steady, which is a lie, because your heart is a...
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