The Faded Bouquet
The rain hammered the corrugated tin roof of the intake hall, a relentless, industrial drumbeat that drowned out the silence of the dead. We stood in a row, six officers, our uniforms pressed and starched, our badges catching the flicker of the gaslight. The air smelled of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the coppery tang of old blood. I watched my hands. They were still. They had to be still. If I...
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