The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-20 15:29:38 -

The Faded Bouquet

The ink was still wet on the parchment when the screaming started. It smelled of iron and old wax, a scent that had permeated the walls of the Abbot’s scriptorium for three centuries. Silas did not look up. His quill moved with a rhythm that was not quite human, a staccato tapping against the vellum that mimicked the heartbeat of a dying animal. He was copying the liturgy for the dead. Again....

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