The Faded Bouquet
The ink had not yet dried on the resignation letter, a document so thin it seemed less like paper and more like a membrane separating the living from the dead, when the fire began. It did not start with a spark, nor with a match struck in the gloom of the drafting room, but with a silence so profound it felt like a physical weight pressing against the eardrums. We were in the undercroft of the...
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