The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-18 05:41:30 -

The Faded Bouquet

The cart wheels screamed against the wet cobblestones, a high, thin shriek that cut through the fog like a knife through silk, dragging the heavy oak box toward the gate of Blackwood Priory, a structure that seemed less built of stone and mortar than of accumulated centuries of silence and rot. Inside the box, Margaret Whitmore sat with her back pressed against the wood, her breath coming in...

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