The Pale Echo
The orchid in the corner was dead, or so I told myself, though its leaves remained a stubborn, translucent green, pulsing with a life that refused to acknowledge the rot at its base. I watched it from my window seat in the manor house, the glass fogging with my breath in the biting October chill. Outside, the village of Blackwood Hollow lay silent under a sky the color of bruised iron. The war...
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