The Distant Garden
The chisel bit deep, and the sound was wrong. It was a wet, tearing noise, like skin stretching over bone, and Elias froze, the tool trembling in his grip. He was forty-two, retired, and alone in the house that had swallowed his father and now threatened to swallow him. The oak door before him was the last thing standing between the rot of the manor and the void beyond, and on it was carved the...
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