The Pale Garden
The damp cellar smelled of rot and old earth. Elias Thorne sat on the cold stone floor, his back against the damp wall, his hands wrapped tightly around a cracked porcelain urn. He was thirty-four years old, an archivist by trade and a prisoner by circumstance, and the vessel in his lap was the only thing that felt real. The silence of the estate was heavy, a physical weight pressing against...
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