The Pale Garden
The count of the grain sacks began at four in the afternoon, a mechanical tally that Elias Thorne performed with the cold precision of a man who had long since ceased to feel the dampness of the cellar seeping into his bones. One, two, three; the numbers were the only things in the estate that did not lie, each sack a concrete weight against the abstract, rotting promises of the magistrate’s...
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