The Faded Bouquet
The rain does not fall so much as it accumulates, a heavy, wet silence that presses against the glass of the window in your office, a room that smells of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of rust, a scent that has seeped into the fibers of the carpet over the years and will never leave, a smell that clings to your skin like a second coat, a garment you cannot take off, a layer of grime...
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