The Faded Bouquet
The rain had not stopped for three days, a ceaseless, gray curtain that turned the heather into a swamp of rotting purple and the stone walls into slick, weeping cliffs, and I stood at the edge of the moor with my hands bound in rough hemp, feeling the wet cold seep through the wool of my tunic until it felt less like a garment and more like a second skin made of ice and regret, while the...
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