The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-17 13:12:36 -

The Faded Bouquet

The mist sits heavy on the cobblestones. It smells of wet stone and old iron. You stand in the square. The rain begins. It is cold. It bites through your wool. You look down at your hands. They are bound. The rope is rough. It cuts into your skin. You do not flinch. You have learned not to flinch. The crowd is thin. They keep their distance. They watch you. Their eyes are flat. They are afraid....

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