The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-19 19:47:41 -

The Faded Bouquet

The rain did not fall; it hovered. A fine, grey mist clung to the branches of the hawthorn, turning the world into a watercolor sketch of itself. Julian stood in the doorway of the rectory, his coat damp, his hands trembling slightly as he held the letter. It was a thin, crisp sheet of paper, smelling faintly of lavender and old ink. "Julian," a voice called from the garden. It was soft,...

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