The Distant Garden
I stood in the doorway, my hand still on the brass handle, the cold metal biting into my palm. "Mr. Thorne," I said, my voice flat and dry as the dust on the shelves. "I need to access the 1920s estate files. Section Four, Box Ninety-Two." Thorne did not look up from his ledger. He was a small man, precise in his movements, his pen scratching a rhythmic, grating line against the paper. "The...
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