The Faded Bouquet
The dream began with the sound of wet stone cracking, a slow, visceral splitting that echoed in the hollows of Arthur Vane’s chest long before he opened his eyes. In the sleep, he was not a man but a vessel, a porcelain jar filled with something dark and viscous that refused to settle, and when the jar fractured, the contents did not spill; they evaporated into a thick, gray fog that smelled of...
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