The Distant Garden

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2026-08-24 12:56:51 -

Clara, my dear, the fever is back. It sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and hot, pressing against my ribs until I can barely breathe. I am writing to you from the attic, where the dust motes dance in the slant of afternoon light, but I do not see them. I see only the glass. You know what I mean. The shards of your final letter. I found the first one this morning, tucked into the lining of...

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