The Distant Garden
The ledger showed three hundred and twelve stitches of ruin in the silk’s hem, a count Elias made with his fingertips while the candle burned low. He had been counting them for three days, a ritual of penance that felt less like prayer and more like the weighing of grain before sale. The silk was his father’s, a garment of such fine weave it had once cost more than the house they lived in, now...
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