The Faded Bouquet
The rain fell like ash. It soaked the wool of my cloak, heavy and cold, as I trampled through the mud of the Holloway estate. The torch in my hand sputtered, throwing jagged shadows against the black stone walls. I was not here for the dead. I was here for the living. Or what passed for it. "Stop," I whispered. My voice was a rasp, dry as old bone. "Stop running." There was no one there. Only...
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