The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-20 11:43:55 -

The Faded Bouquet

The dream was not a dream but a bruise, purple and swollen against the membrane of waking. Margaret stood in the atrium of the Sanatorium, a place that existed only in the grey water of her sleep and the sharp, antiseptic air of her waking. The floor was black marble, polished to a mirror shine that reflected her own face, distorted and elongated. In her hands, she held a bouquet of white...

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