The Faded Bouquet
The silence in the glasshouse was not an absence of sound, but a presence, thick and viscous like the air itself. Elias stood alone among the ferns, his hands trembling as he held the bouquet. It was a collection of things that did not belong to the natural order: flowers with petals like cracked porcelain, stems that pulsed with a faint, bioluminescent rhythm, and leaves that whispered in...
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