The Distant Garden
The table is set for a feast that has not yet arrived, the plates stacked like unstable towers of white porcelain that tremble under the weight of your own breath, and you stand in the center of the room with the heavy, rusted iron key in your hand, a key that feels less like a tool and more like a piece of your own skeleton pulled out and held up to the light, and you are telling the ghost of...
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