The Pale Garden
Elara’s hand shook as she tightened the wrench on the kitchen faucet, the metal cold and slick against her palm. The water dripped, a slow, rhythmic tick that matched the throb in her temple, each drop landing in the rusted basin with a sound like a coin falling into a deep well. She was thirty-four years old, and her knees ached from the damp cold that had seeped through the floorboards of the...
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