The Pale Garden
Act I The terraced hills of the Tōhoku belt stood cut like bread against the grey sky, a mountain kingdom of stone and frost where the wind had no room to hide. In the storeroom of confiscated goods, the air was so cold it bit the tongue, freezing the well water into a solid column that no pump could break. Kaito Matsumoto, thirty-four, stood before the rotting conservatory wall, his hand...
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