The Faded Bouquet
The jar sits on the windowsill, a thick, cylindrical block of amber glass that holds a slurry of brown and grey, a mixture that has long since ceased to be food and has become something else, something structural. You do not know when it was placed there, nor do you know why it remains, for you are not the one who tends the shelves. You are only the one who must explain them. The city outside...
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