The Faded Bouquet
The train hissed into the station at Blackwood Hall with a sound like a dying animal, a long, ragged exhalation that seemed to pull the mist off the platform and wrap it tightly around Margaret Holloway’s ankles. She stood there, holding her small, battered suitcase against her hip, her knuckles white, watching the steam dissipate into the gray, industrial twilight that hung heavy over the...
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