The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-18 15:33:17 -

The Faded Bouquet

The feast was a wound that would not close. I sat at the far end of the long table. The candlelight was thick. It pooled in the wax. It smelled of beeswax and rot. My hands were folded. They were still. I held a small glass of wine. The liquid was dark. It was red like old blood. I did not drink. I watched the surface. It did not ripple. Lord Ashworth sat at the head. He ate with a knife. He...

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