The Pale Garden
The cut appeared on my left palm at six in the morning, a thin red line where the rusted shears had slipped against the thorny stem of the white lily, a small betrayal of skin that bled with a viscosity that seemed to defy the cold November air. I was forty-two years old, and for the last twelve years, I had been the sole groundskeeper at St. Jude’s Asylum, a sprawling Victorian edifice of grey...
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