The Distant Garden
The silk is red. It is the only color that remains in the gray world of the Hall. You hold it in your hands, the fabric cool and slick against your skin, like a snake that has died of thirst. You are in the antechamber. The floor is marble, polished to a mirror sheen that reflects your feet, your knees, the trembling of your thighs. You do not look down. You look at the door. It is oak. It is...
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