The Pale Garden
Who asked for the rot? Antonio Yanes stood in the cellar beneath the Porto docks, the air scrubber filter in his hand heavy with the dust of a generation ship that had forgotten how to breathe. The filter was overdue, its mesh clogged with the spores of the pale ivy that choked the east wing, a plant that grew not from soil but from the condensation of the hull, drinking the ship’s own...
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