The Distant Garden
The rain fell in sheets. Gray. Cold. It washed the road until the world blurred into a single, damp smear. Thomas walked. His boots were heavy. The leather creaked. Each step was a labor. He carried the jar. It was heavy. Glass. Sealed. Inside, something moved. A pulse. A beat. It matched his heart. Or his heart matched it. He could not tell. The air tasted of iron. Of old coins. He was a...
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