The Faded Bouquet
"You've brought the weeds again?" The voice came from the darkness. It was not a question. It was an observation, flat and cold as the slate floor beneath your boots. You did not answer. You could not. Your throat was locked tight, a knot of fear and something else, something primal and wet. "I said, the weeds, Thomas." "Yes," you whispered. "Put them down." You moved. Your hands trembled. The...
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