The Distant Garden
The stamp came down with a crack that split the silence of the granary, the heavy oak block vibrating against the parchment as Mildred Cavett’s wrist ached, a dull throb that traveled up into her shoulder. She had been working since dawn, her fingers stained with the iron-gall ink that smelled of rust and old blood, the smell so thick it coated the back of her throat. The stack of asylum...
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