The Distant Garden
The letter lay on the workbench, the ink still wet where the seal had broken, the paper thin as onion skin. It was a notice of non-compliance, signed by the Director, citing the structural integrity of the Grand Atrium. You read it twice, the light from the high windows cutting across the desk in sharp, dusty slats. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two, a mason with twenty years of service, and the...
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