The Distant Garden
The object in Elias Thorne’s hand was a dry, brown stalk, curled like a question mark. He turned it over, his thumb rubbing the brittle stem, feeling the faint, impossible warmth that seemed to radiate from the dead plant. It was a rose, or what remained of one, found in the basement of the Meridian Institute, a place that should have been empty. The hum was there, low and thick, vibrating in...
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