The Faded Bouquet

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 07:41:14 -

The Faded Bouquet

I wake in the white room. The light is not sunlight. It is a hum, a static, a pale gray fog that presses against the glass walls. I am kneeling. My hands are bound behind my back. The ropes are silk. They feel soft, almost warm, like a lover’s skin, but they cut. I pull. The knot tightens. I am Thomas Bradshaw. I am a sinner. I know this because the wall knows it. The wall is a mirror, but it...

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