The Faded Bouquet
The house on the hill was not haunted, at least not in the way the townsfolk of Oakhaven whispered it to be, for there were no ghosts in the walls and no spirits in the cellar, only the heavy, suffocating weight of time itself pressing down on the shingles like a damp wool blanket, and I, being twelve years old and possessed of a mind that had become too sharp for its own good, understood this...
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