The Faded Bouquet
The rain does not fall so much as it insists, a relentless, gray curtain that blurs the edges of the world outside your office window, turning the glass into a mirror where your own face is a ghostly, translucent thing, and you stand there, holding the bouquet of dried, brittle ferns that you have kept in the center of the desk for three years, watching the water in the vase turn the color of...
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