The Distant Garden
The ledger lay in my hands, its cover slick with the damp of the flat and the heavier, greasier sweat of my own palms, a book that weighed more than its paper should have, as if the air inside the binding were thick with something solid and waiting. I am Elias Thorne, and for the last forty-two years, I have been a man who holds things that do not belong to him, first the archives of the...
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