The Distant Garden

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2026-08-22 00:37:09 -

The air in the dining room of the Vane estate did not smell of decay, as one might expect in a house where the master had been dead for three years, but rather of ozone and wet stone, a thick, metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Vane’s throat as he stood before the long mahogany table. He was forty years old, though the tremor in his hands, a palsy that no neurologist in London could...

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