The Pale Garden

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2026-08-22 01:32:21 -

The Pale Garden

The rain hit the glass. It sounded like knuckles. I sat in the cell. The iron chair bit into my spine. Cold. Wet. The air smelled of rust and old blood. I wiped my nose. My hands shook. Not from cold. From hunger. "Are you listening, Sergeant?" The voice came from the dark. Inspector Hale. I did not turn. I knew his face. I knew the shape of his shadow. I had worn it for ten years. "I am," I...

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