The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-17 22:32:19 -

The Faded Bouquet

The air in the house tasted of wet plaster and old copper. Margaret stood before the mirror in the hallway, her reflection blurred by a film of dust that no one had wiped away in weeks. She was fifty-four. Her hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly as she brushed her hair. The room was not a room. It was a throat. The walls pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light, blue and cold. "Stop shaking,...

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