The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-18 07:13:36 -

The Faded Bouquet

The dream always begins with the stone. It is not a cold stone, as one might expect of the crypts beneath the old parish church, but a living thing, warm as a fevered brow and rough as the hide of a bear. I lie upon it. I am always lying upon it. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and something sweeter, heavier, like the decay of lilies left too long in a vase. I can feel the pulse...

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