The Distant Garden
Could you tell me how a man eats bread when his hands are made of ash? The loom upstairs had stopped, the silence heavy enough to bruise, and I sat in the front room of the dressmaker’s, the air heavy with damp wool and the greenish light that precedes a hailstorm. I am Eoin Hegarty, and I am a junior archivist in a town that does not exist on any map, yet I am paid in coins that feel too heavy...
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