The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-19 03:39:28 -

The Faded Bouquet

The soup is red. Not the bright, acidic red of a tomato bisque, but the deep, arterial crimson of a wound that has refused to clot. It sits in a heavy porcelain bowl on the center of the mahogany table, steam rising in thin, ghostly wisps that curl and vanish into the cold air of the dining room. You are sitting across from Margaret, and you can feel the heat of the broth against your skin even...

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