The Pale Garden
The dream began with the smell of damp mortar and the taste of iron on my tongue, a sensation so visceral that I woke not to the sun, but to the grey, heavy curtain of the London fog pressing against the windowpane of my study. I was thirty-four, a junior lecturer in architectural history at a university that valued its ivy more than its intellect, and I had spent the last six months obsessing...
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