The Distant Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-24 06:35:08 -

The count of the hours was the only thing that kept the silence from becoming a weight, thirty years of them stacked like bricks in the wall of the constabulary, and you were forty-two years old, which meant you had six more years to serve before the pension would be yours, a sum of money that would allow you to buy a small plot of land near the coast and perhaps, if the weather was kind, sit...

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