The Distant Garden
The rain does not fall so much as it is poured from a broken sky, a heavy, cold deluge that turns the cobblestones of the High Street into slick, black mirrors reflecting the gas lamps that flicker with a dying, anxious light. You are standing on the corner of Weaver’s Lane, your uniform soaked through to the skin, the wool heavy and clinging to your back like a second, suffocating body. The...
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