The Distant Garden
The shovel bit into the packed snow, the metal edge singing a high, thin note against the ice. You hauled the weight up, your shoulders burning with the familiar ache of a body that had spent forty-two years in the same posture, and tossed the slush over the wall. The wind was not blowing; it was pushing, a solid, invisible hand against the back of your neck, rattling the single window of...
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