The Pale Garden
The rain has been falling for three days, a persistent, grey sheet that turns the courtyard into a mirror of mud and broken slate, and you count the hours not by the clock but by the ache in your shoulders, each hour a brick laid in the wall of your own confinement. You are Elias Thorne, a mason who has spent forty-two years smoothing rough stone into something that looks like permanence, and...
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