The Distant Garden
The bell above the Chancery door rang three times, a sharp, metallic sound that cut through the dust of the morning. Thomas Bradshaw stood by the window, his hands wrapped around a leather satchel that felt heavier than it had the previous night, the weight of the parchment inside pressing against his palms. He was forty years old, a scribe of twelve years’ service, and he was leaving for the...
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