The Distant Garden
The letter is dated October 14, 1924, and it is written on heavy, cream-colored paper that smells faintly of lavender and old blood. You are the reader, and you are the one who must carry this weight, this specific, suffocating burden of ink on fiber. I am Elias Thorne, and I am writing to you because there is no one else left who understands the geometry of my sin. I am the magistrate of this...
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