The Pale Garden
The mud was sucking at Elias’s boots, a cold, wet grip that felt less like earth and more like a mouth trying to swallow him whole. He ran, his breath tearing at his throat in ragged gasps, the flashlight in his hand trembling so violently the beam swept back and forth across the twisted oaks like a lighthouse warning of a shipwreck that had already happened. Behind him, the silence of the moor...
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