The Distant Garden
The ledger sat on Elias Thorne’s desk, a heavy, bound thing of black leather and blank pages. It whispered. Not loudly, not at first. Just a dry rustle, like dry leaves skittering across stone, a sound that seemed to come from the paper itself. Elias was forty-two, a scribe of twelve years’ standing in the Ministry of Records, and he needed the annual census to be perfect. His pension depended...
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