The Faded Bouquet
The iron gate of the Abbey of St. Jude groaned, a low, metallic sigh that seemed to come from the earth itself, before Margaret Ashworth pushed it open with a hand that shook not from the autumn chill, but from the sheer, crushing weight of expectation. She carried a single, withered rose in a clay pot, its petals brown and brittle as old parchment, the thorns still sharp enough to draw blood...
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