The Pale Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-25 02:25:37 -

The Pale Garden

The locket was cold against my chest, a small silver heart that held my mother’s face in tarnish and time. I kept it hidden beneath my shirt, where the metal bit into my skin with every breath I took. St. Jude’s Orphanage smelled of boiled cabbage and stale urine, a scent that had seeped into the very stones of our walls. I was twelve years old, and I was afraid. Mr. Vane stood at the head of...

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