The Distant Garden
The ledger shows four hundred and twelve hours worked this season, a number that feels heavier than the soil I turn. I have paid for my silence with every cent of my wage, keeping the books balanced for a man who does not exist. The air in the garden is thick with the smell of wet iron and dying leaves, a scent that clings to the back of the throat like a bad coin. You know the rule, even if...
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