The Distant Garden
Act I I remember the weight of the pen more than the blood that stained the paper, a heavy, brass instrument that felt like it had been forged for a hand twice the size of mine. I was forty-two, a senior archivist in the Ministry of Records, and I stood in the observation blister, the curved glass pressing against my forehead as the Hardanger fjord lay below us, a delta of salt and rice paddies...
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