The Distant Garden
The air in Ward 4 of the Sanatorium for the Chronically Dissolved smelled of ozone and old paper, a sterile scent that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the preservation of the self. He sat at his desk, a slab of polished mahogany that seemed to float in the gray haze of the room, and dipped his quill into the inkwell, the liquid black and viscous as a pupil dilating in the dark. At...
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