The Faded Bouquet
The carriage wheels bit into the mud of the Blackwood Lane, a rhythmic, grinding shriek that seemed to unravel the very fabric of the night air, while inside, Silas Thorne, a man whose mind was a cathedral of dusty books and sharp, cold logic, clutched a small, leather-bound satchel against his chest as if it contained his own beating heart, his knuckles white with a tension that had nothing to...
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