The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-20 20:18:24 -

The Faded Bouquet

The cart wheels groaned against the cobblestones, a sound like old bones cracking in the cold. Elias Thorne kept his hands steady on the reins, though his knuckles were white. The air tasted of iron and wet ash. It was a Tuesday in November, the kind of grey that presses against the eyes until they water. He was a man of measurements. He knew the exact width of a plank, the tension in a rope,...

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