The Distant Garden
The first thing you notice is the taste, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat, not quite blood but something older, something that has been sitting in the pipes of the city for a hundred years, and you realize that the jar in your hand is no longer full of honey but of dust, a fine, gray powder that settles in the creases of your knuckles as you try to open it, the lid rusted shut...
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