The Faded Bouquet
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the lane into slick, black mirrors reflecting the soot-stained brickwork of our house. I stood in the center of the kitchen, my back against the cold iron of the range, listening to the house settle around me with the creaks and groans of an old ship in a storm. The air smelled of wet wool, coal...
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