The Faded Bouquet
The iron gates of the Ashwood sanatorium did not open so much as they conceded, grinding against the gravel with a sound like a long, suppressed sigh. Silas Vane stepped through, the weight of the rain on his shoulders mirroring the heavier, invisible load he carried in his chest. He was a man built for the field, a former soldier whose hands were still mapped with the calluses of the rifle and...
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