The Faded Bouquet
The brass cufflinks you have worn for twenty years are cold, heavier than they should be, and their tarnished surface reflects a room that does not quite exist in the physical world. You stand in the antechamber of the High House, a place where the air is so still it feels viscous, thick with the scent of beeswax, old paper, and the metallic tang of ozone that precedes a storm that will never...
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