The Distant Garden

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2026-08-21 16:18:35 -

The door is thin. You hear the wood creak. It sounds like a bone snapping. You are seven. You are small. The air smells of wet wool and dust. You hold a brass key. It is cold. It burns your palm. You do not look back. You must not look back. Behind you, the house is dying. In front of you, the garden waits. It is not a garden. It is a wound. You walk. The grass is black. It is soft. It swallows...

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