The Distant Garden
The damp air in the greenhouse tastes of iron and old rot, a flavor that coats the back of your throat and refuses to wash away, as you sit at the wobbly wooden table with your ink-stained fingers hovering over the leather-bound journal. You are Elias Thorne, forty years old, a man whose reputation for botanical precision was shattered three years ago by a single, unexplained failure in the...
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