The Faded Bouquet
The rain did not fall. It hung. A grey, suspended mist clung to the windows of the Ashworth estate. It blurred the world outside into a smear of slate and bruised violet. I stood by the hearth. The fire was dead. Embers pulsed like failing hearts. I was looking for a lie. I had come to investigate a death. Or rather, the absence of one. Elias Thorne had been declared dead three weeks ago. His...
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