The Pale Garden
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a thick, grey curtain that smothered the valley. I stood at the gate of the old house, my hands shaking, not from the cold, but from the weight of what I carried. It was a small, leather-bound book. No, not a book. A ledger. My father’s ledger. The pages were brittle, stained with rust and old blood, the ink faded to a ghostly violet. I had...
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