The Distant Garden
The rain had turned the alley behind the municipal archives into a slick, black mirror, reflecting the neon buzz of the streetlights above, and I stood there, forty-two years old and soaked to the bone, clutching a shattered ceramic hand that I had pulled from a dumpster like a relic from a war I hadn’t declared, while a low, rhythmic humming vibrated through the soles of my work boots, a sound...
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