The Faded Bouquet
The air in the basement of the St. Jude’s Infirmary did not smell of rot, as one might expect from a place where the dying came to rest. It smelled of wet limestone, stale tobacco, and the sharp, metallic tang of iron. I stood in the center of the room, my boots heavy on the flagstones, watching the single orchid that had been placed on the cold slab. It was a ghostly white, its petals...
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