The Distant Garden
The town clerk, a man whose name Elara could no longer recall, had called her name from the doorway of the rotting municipal archive. It was a summons, not a greeting. He had stood in the frame of the door, backlit by the grey November afternoon, and said, Elara, you are expected. He did not enter. He simply waited until she looked up from the ledger she was reading, a book of water-damaged...
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