The Pale Garden
The rot in the kitchen floorboards groaned under Elias Thorne’s boots, a wet, sucking sound that seemed to echo the wetness in his daughter’s lungs. He stood in the center of the peeling wallpaper, holding the empty vial, and stared at the wall where the black root system had been pruned years ago, leaving only a dark scar in the plaster. "Give it to me," he said, his voice low and steady,...
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