The Pale Garden
The dream was always the same, a recurring nightmare of white roots tangling through my throat, choking me with the scent of wet earth and rotting lilies, until I woke in the high, cold bedroom of Blackwood Hall with my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I am Elara, thirty-two, a botanist who has traded the bright, chaotic energy of London’s botanical gardens for the...
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