The Distant Garden

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2026-08-23 10:52:21 -

Three hundred and twelve chisel strikes. That was the count when the mist first touched the edge of the chisel, cool and damp as a wet tongue. Elias Thorne did not wipe his brow. He did not look up from the granite block that sat upon the scaffolding, high above the cobblestones of Oakhaven. The stone was grey, veined with black, and it smelled of wet iron and old rot, a scent that had grown so...

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