The Distant Garden
The iron bell sat in my hands, cold and heavy as a stone pulled from a riverbed, its surface pitted by a century of rust and the specific, damp air of the cellar where it had lain since my father’s death. I wiped my palms on my trousers, the fabric stiff with dried sweat, and looked at the object that was supposed to be my salvation. It was not large, perhaps the size of a dinner plate, but it...
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