The Distant Garden
You wake up with the taste of rust in your mouth. It is a thick, metallic tang, like chewing on a coin that has been left in the rain for a decade. You spit it into the linoleum floor of the dormitory, but the taste remains, clinging to the back of your throat like a stubborn memory. Around you, the other boys are stirring. The air smells of damp wool and boiled cabbage, a scent that has become...
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