The Distant Garden
The morning had a weight to it, measured in the three pounds of dried peas Elias Thorne had to grind before the sun cleared the eaves, a task that required the steady pressure of a stone against a rough surface, a rhythm he had maintained for twenty years of service and now, in the quiet of his own kitchen, with a tremor in his hands that the cold air of the year 1348 made no effort to hide. He...
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