The Faded Bouquet
The rain fell in sheets of grey iron, drumming against the stained glass of the archive until the windows wept. I was on my knees, my coat soaked through, pressing my ear to the cold stone floor. The vibration was a low, rhythmic thrum, like a heart beating in the belly of the earth. I had come here to find evidence, to prove that the Magistrate’s court was a house built on rot, but the floor...
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