The Distant Garden
The red stamp hits the desk with a thud that vibrates up your wrist, a physical rejection of the request you have spent three weeks drafting. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a border patrol agent in a fog-choked outpost that exists on no map but in the minds of men who prefer things to be hidden. Your concrete want is simple, almost childish in its persistence: to retrieve the brass compass...
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