The Faded Bouquet
You wake in the dark, not with a start, but with the slow, sickening realization that the weight on your chest is not your own breath, but the heavy, damp wool of a coat you do not recognize. The air in the room is thick, tasting of iron and old stone, a flavor that coats the back of your throat like a bad penny. You are lying on a floor of cold flagstones, the dampness seeping through the thin...
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