The Distant Garden
Thorne. The name hung in the air of the cell block office, dry and sharp, spoken by the intercom system that had failed three times this week. Elias Thorne did not look up. He held the porcelain mug under the desk lamp, the light catching the hairline fracture that ran from the handle to the rim. It was a beautiful break, clean as a surgeon’s cut, and it matched the fracture in his own...
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