The Distant Garden
The reprimand was pinned to your door with a single, rusted tack, the paper yellowed by the damp that seeps into the stones of Vane House. It read, in the cold, precise hand of the estate secretary: "Excessive familiarity with the archives. Cease immediately." You peeled the paper from the wood, the tack leaving a small, dark hole in the frame, and felt the weight of the accusation settle in...
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