The Distant Garden
The black sap began to seep from the roots of the old yew tree on the morning of the first frost, a viscous, tar-like substance that smelled faintly of iron and rot. I recorded the anomaly in the monastery’s ledger with a steady hand, noting the date, the temperature, and the precise location of the first stain on the flagstones, for I am a man of order even in the face of what I could only...
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