The Faded Bouquet
You are standing in the rain. It is not a gentle rain. It is a cold, gray sheet of water that hits the cobblestones with a sound like static. You are holding a lantern. The glass is cracked. The flame inside sputters. You do not fix it. You never fix it. You are the Watchman. You have been the Watchman for three hundred years. Or maybe it is only three days. Time is a river here. You are the...
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