The Distant Garden
The shovel hits the earth with a dull, wet thud that vibrates up through your palms and into your shoulders. You are Elias, forty-two, and your knees are pressed into the cold, compacted dirt of the garden, a patch of sterile green that has not seen true sunlight in years. The rose bush before you is dying, its leaves curling into black, brittle scrolls that whisper of rot and neglect. You know...
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