The Pale Garden
The rusted iron key felt heavy in your palm, a cold weight that seemed to anchor you to the lip of the cemetery as the October fog rolled in from the moors. You were twelve years old, Arthur, and you stood there with your breath coming in short, sharp bursts, the mist clinging to your wool coat like a damp shroud. You wanted to prove that the pale roses blooming in the abandoned Harrowgate...
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